Fathers and Sons
by Axis of Equinox
Summary: Family ties are challenged when Faramir disappears, and Boromir begins to worry whether he will ever get the chance to see him alive again.
1. Captured

A/N: Aah, my favourite initial, super-long author's note gleeful dance Hooray, my triumphant return! After an almost two-year hiatus in which I have been working as an editor on the site, I finally return with- I hope- a much better level of skill than hitherto. So I present to you my piéce de résistance- for now. I have been working on this story for an incredibly long time, mostly because I have altered characters, events and endings enough times that it is virtually nothing like the original idea. In short, Faramir is kidnapped and held hostage for a large ransom, for reasons which no one really knows. Gandalf pops in to help Boromir, who is having troubles at home with Denethor. However, things go awry when there are problems with the ransom, and Boromir is afraid that he might never see his brother again. I will thank you kindly to send me HELPFUL reviews of the non-bitchy sort, and to let me know what you think.

Enjoy!

Chapter 1: Captured

A horse galloped through the gates of the city into the darkening plains, its rider bent low over its neck. Faramir twisted the reins tensely, his jaw firmly clenched in memory of the last few days. Osgiliath had been a terrible defeat. Hundreds of men, all dying about him; everyone but him it seemed. No, he had been left to return and face the wrath of the Steward, and he was still raw from it.

"_Faramir, why must you forever be a stain upon my honour?" Denethor said in a voice like thunder, glaring daggers at his younger son. "I trust Osgiliath, one of the most vital cities to our defence, to you, and you have let the enemy just walk in and take it on a whim!" Faramir stood, his head bowed, bearing his father's attacks in silence, although he was writhing with humiliation inside. "Do not stand there with your head down as if you were a slave or a beggar! You are a lord, even if in name only!" Denethor paced the floor agitatedly, strongly resembling a gruff old lion, his long robes swishing about as he whirled again. "If your brother had been in command, he would have held it with half the losses!" Faramir sighed. Boromir again. He could make no mistake without being told Boromir would not have made it, and could have no success without being told Boromir would have done it better. He loved his brother dearly, and was glad for his success, but he often wished he could escape from the ever-present shadow of his perfect older sibling._

"_I am sorry father; but we had too few men, and the orcs were far too many. We did the best we could."_

"'_The best we could? The best we could!'" Denethor mumbled in a rage, his voice suddenly rising back to a hoarse shout. "'The best we could'?! Excuses, always excuses. You can make no excuse! There is no excuse! Do you have any idea how important Osgiliath is? With it, the enemy sits at our very doorstep! It was pure idiocy on my part, ever letting you command that city in Boromir's absence! It was he who insisted on it, and I could not refuse him. I see now I was wrong." He put a weary hand to his head, his voice dropping to a strained growl. "Now get out of my sight before I do something I will regret!" Faramir bowed and silently left the room. _

Faramir's horse stumbled, and he brought his mind back to the present, seeing the beast was exhausted. Pulling gently back on the rains, he brought the dark stallion to a slow walk. The sun was halfway below the horizon, turning the lower sky into molten fire. Above, the sky was rapidly darkening into the shades of night, and Faramir felt a twinge of worry as he turned his horse and saw how far he had ridden. The chill breath of nightfall stirred the sparse grasses of the plains of Pellenor, and Faramir forced himself not to turn and look at the ill-fated city of Osgiliath, small in the distance. He was in no mood to see the crumbled ruins of the once proud city whose downfall was his own fault. He wound his fingers miserably in the reins, writhing inside with shame. It seemed as though nothing he did was right. Always he was lost in his brother's blinding light, and the shadow of his father's displeasure. Some days, he managed to tell himself it was for his own improvement; then other days, he felt like he would die in the attempt to be seen. He fingered the ring on his left hand, a sign of his empty rank. It was an ugly, gaudy monstrosity of gold with a superfluous, heavy ruby displayed garishly in the centre. He wished he could be rid of it, but he knew he couldn't.

As his horse plodded tiredly back the way they had come, he waited with growing agitation as the walls of the city seemed to get farther away rather than closer. He looked at the sun, now almost lost behind the burnt earth. The gates of the city closed for the night one hour after sunset; they would not be opened for any man save by the Steward's request, and Faramir knew he would get no such favour. Suddenly, his horse froze and refused to go another step, laying its ears back against its head. There was a stirring in the grass, not caused by any wind. Faramir instinctively reached for his sword, but felt his heart sink as he found only the empty sheath. He had taken it out before his conference with his father, afraid he might throw himself on it. He was now completely unarmed, with not even a dagger at his side.

A dark figure leapt out onto the path before him. His horse shied away at this sudden approach, and Faramir was almost thrown to the ground. It was all he could do to calm the animal, and it took many comforting words before the creature stood still. The dark form on the path was still standing in the centre of it, hooded and cloaked. Seeing Faramir was now watching however, they threw their hood back. To Faramir's surprise and relief, he found standing before him a beautiful young woman. Meeting her eyes, he felt a shiver run down his spine. Her proud, noble face was as white as ice, with no hint of colour anywhere. Her dark lips were twisted into what he assumed was an attempt at a friendly smile, although her eyes, as dark as two glittering pieces of coal, shone contemptuously out on him, speaking of her disdain for all. To his astonishment, however, when she spoke her voice was pleading and frightened.

"My Lord, I cry your mercy! I was returning from a voyage to another city and, while I was taking my ease, my horse started and ran off, along with all of my baggage. I have been walking for near two days, and now I fear I shall be shut outside the gates yet another night." Her voice was cultured and well-mannered, hinting at a noble upbringing. Her bearing was regal and proud, and her head was held high as she looked him full in the face. However, Faramir could not remove his suspicions of her.

"Why was a young maiden such as yourself travelling alone and unguarded?"

"I am the daughter of a once-wealthy merchant who passed away several years ago. Since then, I have been running my fathers affairs alone. My brother is only a lad of ten, and all other men in my family are dead. We have just come to this noble city from one of the outer villages, and we are not intimate with anyone here yet."

"Why did you not hire someone to escort you?" She had a ready answer for this also, although she seemed to be getting somewhat irritated by all the questions.

"As I said, before my father died, we were very wealthy. But since then, most of his fortune has been spent in caring for my mother, who has been wasting away since his death. I am not the keen business man he was, and I am afraid I have not done well in managing his affairs." She darted a glance at the tall grass on either side of her, anger briefly flashing behind her eyes.

"What are you looking for?" Faramir asked, growing more suspicious of this cold woman. She whirled back to him with a withering glare, her patience seeming to snap.

"Enough questions." She said tersely and turned on her heel and began to walk away. Suddenly, strong hands were grabbing Faramir and pulling him from his horse, which shot away in alarm. Faramir was paralysed by confusion, allowing the figures around him to push him down and bind his hands. Their faces were covered and their figures muffled with huge black cloaks, but their darks eyes shone out at him with a wild, hungry light. Then, out of the growing dark loomed a huge shadow. Faramir suddenly realised his attackers all stood to the side, their heads bowed in respect. Towards him, pacing slowly, was the dark figure of an immense man. Although the wild men were fairly large in stature, they were dwarfed in comparison to this mountain of a man. He must have stood almost seven feet high, and his broad chest and brawny arms told him to be at least sixteen stones of raw strength. The wild men seemed cowed before him, and lowered their eyes respectfully as he passed. He halted before Faramir, seeming to study him closely. Unlike all the others, this man wore no covering on his face, which was square and hard and handsome. He gave a low rumbling chuckle.

"Good work boys," he said in a low, rough brogue. "Looks like my cat has caught the bird." He chuckled again.

"You may put away your ego for the moment, Dreyd!" a voice said from behind him. The woman from the road swept up, irritation evident in her eyes. "Perhaps we might, instead, finish the task at hand before someone from the city or the road spots us, and we are all hung for treason." She said it quietly and with an almost wheedling note, but the disgust in her voice dripped over them all like oil. Dreyd seemed to shrink before her caustic gaze, but quickly stuck out his chest and glared back. Turning to his men, he gestured to them. Several of them raced forward and seized Faramir by the arms, dragging him towards a waiting horse that had been called from the distance. Pulling himself out of his shock and confusion, Faramir fought off the hands gripping him. Managing to roll onto his back, he kicked them away and tried to get to his feet. Then, something whacked him between the shoulders and he was sent sprawling to the ground once more. A heavy boot was placed on his back, pushing his face into the dust.

"Don't try to run from me, boy!" Dreyd snarled. Faramir struggled to breathe through the dust filling his nose and mouth, writhing beneath the painful pressure of the foot. The heel ground painfully into his spine. "You hear?" Lifting his foot, Dreyd viciously kicked Faramir in the ribs, then turned on his heel and stalked away, yelling over his shoulder "don't let him get away again, you worthless rabble." This time, seven burly men fell upon Faramir, seizing him and pinning him to the ground. Still, Faramir foolishly struggled against them. With a howl of irritation, one of them raised his sword and brought the hilt down hard on the back of Faramir's head. He suddenly lay still, and, with a grunt of satisfaction, the man slung the limp body over a horse and, all others mounting their own beasts, galloped off into the night.

TBC

A/N: So there you go. The first chapter. That is all.


	2. Imprisonment

A/N: Dahlings, I'm SO sorry I broke my promise and did not post on Sunday! I hope you may forgive me- and after you all gave me such wonderful reviews! Well, I hope you liked the first chapter, and were sufficiently gripped to read the second. I'm not very bright with chapter names, am I?

Chapter 2: Imprisonment

Faramir's eyes slowly opened, and pain shot through his head. He quickly shut his eyes again, blocking out the brilliant pain. He gingerly put a hand to the place where the sword had struck him, noticing as he raised his arm the sore spot on his ribs where he had been kicked. He slowly and cautiously opened his eyes again. The late afternoon sun poured in through a tiny slit high in the stone wall, nearly blinding him as it went straight into his eyes. Turning his head slightly, he looked at the rest of his surroundings. He lay on his back in a tiny stone room, barely large enough for three people to sit side by side. The mouldy stone beneath him was fetid and icy cold, as was the musty air of the cell. An immense wooden door studded with iron took up most of one wall. Faramir pushed himself up, noticing his feet were shackled to the wall by about two feet of chain, leaving him just enough leeway to move. He crawled over the wall and leaned against it, his mind whirling through his situation. So much had just happened so fast. It was all just too strange. Who on earth were these people? And why would they want to capture him in the first place? Perhaps his father had sent them, just to teach his son a lesson, Faramir thought bitterly and somewhat foolishly. He rubbed a hand over his face, trying to make sense of it all. They had not spoken in the strange tongue of the Southroners, and were obviously not orcs, so who were they? Some new enemy altogether? They were sadly mistaken if they thought they could use him as a bargaining tool. Resting his head against the wall, Faramir decided there was no use worrying about what was going on. He would just have to sit and wait for things to change.

He did not have to wait long. The sun had barely disappeared out of the window, sending the room into almost total darkness, when he heard footsteps echoing in the corridor outside. He waited tensely, his stomach knotting, as there was the sound of rusty bolts being pulled apart. The door gave a loud creak as it swung slowly open on ancient hinges. In strode Dreyd and the woman. A cold smile was on Dreyd's face as he spoke.

"Well my prince, it is time for you to do your part." He tossed a piece of parchment down in front of Faramir. "Write a letter to your father, explaining what has happened and what we want." He said, plunking down a quill and ink. Faramir looked with absolute horror at the piece of parchment. Write a letter to his father, admitting to him that he had failed and brought trouble on his head yet again? Faramir did not think he could bring himself to do it.

"What _do_ you want?" he asked. Dreyd snorted in amused disgust.

"Money." He said, as if it had been the most obvious thing in the world.

"Why would anyone give money for me?" Faramir asked blankly, stalling for time. He could not bear to write that letter. Dreyd looked as if he was ready to strike him, but held back.

"Just write the damn letter!" he said through clenched teeth. Faramir hesitated, then decided to take the risk.

"Not until you answer my questions." This time Dreyd did strike him. His fist caught Faramir hard on the side of the face, banging his already sore head into the wall. Stars exploded in his vision, and for a moment, he felt as if he was going to pass out.

"Write the damn letter!" Dreyd bawled. The woman, who had said nothing up to this point, had had enough.

"Calm yourself, Dreyd" she almost growled the words. "_I'll_ write the letter, and all your friend has to do is sign it." Snatching up the parchment and quill, she wrote against the wall with quick, blunt handwriting. A moment later, she threw the things back down in front of Faramir. "Sign." Her simple deep voice denied disobedience. Looking warily at Dreyd, Faramir took up the quill and quickly scratched his name, not even bothering to glance at the contents of the page. Dreyd pounced on the letter before the woman could get it. He read it over quickly, then as he came to the bottom, his face reddened and his gaze returned to Faramir, this time filled with rage. He drew his foot back and kicked him viciously in the stomach, knocking the wind out of him.

"What the hell is this?!" He yelled in a strained voice, shoving the paper in Faramir's face, a huge finger pointing at his signature. "What the hell is it?" Faramir looked at him in confusion and pain.

"What do you mean?" he gasped. Dreyd kicked him twice more, even harder this time, eliciting a sharp yelp of pain.

"That's not your name!" he shrieked. "That's not your name!" The woman snatched the paper from his hand, quickly taking in the scrawled name. Her face, in contrast to Dreyd's, turned a sharp white.

"Who are you?" she purred tensely. Faramir's eyes darted from one to the other.

"Faramir son of Denethor." Dreyd exploded again.

"He lies Eiyree!" the man bellowed, using the woman's name for the first time. "He is not Denethor's son! Denethor's son goes by the name of Boromir!" Wheeling on Faramir once more, he advanced on him with renewed rage. Faramir shrunk back in fear. He curled tightly into a ball as Dreyd rained blows on him. The man's uncontrolled rage terrified him. He tried to dodge his feet and fists as much as he could, but he seemed determined to beat him to death. His ribs felt as if they were about to break with each kick, and he was practically blind now from the pain in his head. Suddenly he heard a soft word, which penetrated easily through.

"Stop!" Eiyree commanded. Dreyd stopped as if turned off by a switch. "It may be wise, Dreyd, to practice your intuitive self control instead of your fist work. Look at his name: he is indeed Denethor's son, but he is not the prince." She folded the paper carefully, her eyes boring a hole into his. "Now, how could this have happened?" She said it softly, almost gently, but Dreyd was staring at her as if she were about to run him through. "Did you not watch the prince first, to be sure you had the right man? Some might call that careless. And carelessness, as you may imagine, is not acceptable." She tucked the paper away, her gaze never wavering. "For now, we have a very great problem indeed, you see. For, instead of having the firstborn son of the Steward, his heir, the High Prince of Gondor, we have instead, a mere substitute; and underling; a simple and unworthy second-born. This is not Boromir." Suddenly, their heads turned back to Faramir as he erupted with a short, unexpected sound.

"You- you thought I was my brother? You brought me here and did all this because… you thought I was Boromir?" Through all his pain, Faramir could somehow see the irony of this. That anyone would think he was his brother somehow struck him as extremely funny. It was true they looked alike but no one had ever before commented on a similarity between them- probably for fear of his father. It was cruelly ironic really. He had always rather wished he could have been his brother- strong, handsome, well-loved- and now, he had gotten his wish. It wasn't quite what he had hoped. With an amusement bordering on hysteria Faramir began, of all things, to laugh. Eiyree and Dreyd gaped at him, completely stunned, as, in short, gasping breaths, he lay bleeding on the ground, cackling like a madman. Dreyd lunged at him and grabbed him by the shirtfront. He dragged him up and shook him like a rag doll.

"Are you bloody mad?" He bellowed. "Why are you laughing?" The mirth seemed to infuriate him, and he seemed about to strike him again. But with Eiyree standing there, all he did was hurl him back to the ground, where Faramir lay, still laughing maniacally. Dreyd tore at his hair. "What are we to do with him Eiyree?"

"We? My dear man, this is your mistake. Correct it." She said in a clipped voice, and, turning on her heel, stalked out. Dreyd wheeled on Faramir, who instantly stopped laughing.

"You had better hope your father will pay up, boy." He snarled. "For your sake."

TBC


	3. Home Again

A/N: Aha, an on-time post! Huzzah for me! As requested, we are indeed home again. So now, I will leave you to it, and you may leave me to my endless notes on judicial malfeasance.

Chapter 3: Home again

A timid knock sounded at the door of Lord Denethor's chambers. "Leave me!" He growled, continuing his restless pacing up and down the marble floor. There was a pause, then the door slowly opened. Boromir slid carefully into the room. His father was in a dangerous mood. As he heard the door open, Denethor whirled with a savage glare to see who dared to disobey him. His face relaxed as he saw Boromir. "Ah, my son. So you have returned. I am glad." But Denethor did not look particularly glad. "How was your inspection of my lands? Does all fare well?" He turned to the servant standing in the shadow of a pillar and snarled "Leave!" She bowed and withdrew.

"It fares well enough in the country, father," Boromir replied, then hesitated, preparing to touch on the subject which so disturbed his father. "I have received news of Faramir's disappearance." The snarl returned to his father's face.

"Disappearance, ha! The cowardly dog has fled from his responsibilities and duties! He has run away for fear of battle! He knew he must return and face Osgiliath until it was retaken, but he is too fainthearted."

"Please, father..." Boromir said soothingly. It was taking all of his strength to keep from exploding with anxiety over his little brother. Missing for nearly three days! Despite what his father may think, Faramir was no coward, and was more loyal to his father than any man. He would never flee the city under any circumstances, save on the order of his father. Denethor though, ploughed on thickheadedly.

"I have always said that boy was no good. He is no son of mine who flees the battlefield!"

"Father, you cannot mean that! Do you not think," Boromir said, gritting his teeth in an attempt to maintain patience, "that perhaps something might have... well... _happened_ to Faramir?"

"Happened? Oh yes, I know exactly what happened!" Denethor fumed. This was the first time he had really been able to vent his anger without restraint. "He has willingly fallen prey to the demons of cowardice and dastardliness, and has gone by their aid into hiding, fearing my wrath."

"Come now father, really. You know Faramir, you know he would never do these things you so... hastily accuse him of," Boromir chose his words carefully. "He has never played the craven before, why should he do so now at the prospect of this battle?" Denethor paused in his pacing to focus a sharp eye on his son.

"Do I know him so well? Or indeed, do you? He hides his thoughts well, but not well enough to betray his nature. There is a first time for everything, as there has been for this. He has henceforth shown little signs of either bravery or cowardice, and has, in my belief, only remained true as long as you, his protector, were present to hold his leash. Now, the moment I release him, he is away like an untameable colt." Denethor whirled about abruptly and began his pacing once more. Boromir tried to slow his breathing and maintain his calm. Nothing was ever gained from getting into a screaming match with his father. He had learned long ago you never won.

"May I at least have your permission to organize a search for Faramir, my Lord," he said rather stiffly.

"You may not." Denethor snapped, halting again. His eyes were ablaze with a furious light, his fists clenched tightly by his side. He could sense his elder son's suppressed anger, and it served to fuel his own, already burning deep in his soul, to a frenzy of blind rage. "Do not think I do not see your heart, my son. You are not steward yet, so do not seek to undermine my authority. I meant what I said that he is no son of mine. I renounce the coward Faramir as my son, and proclaim him dead in my eyes!" The echo of this booming statement bounced eerily off the stone walls, thundering in Boromir's ears. He could not believe what he was hearing. This was too far, even for his father. Too horrified for words, he turned and practically ran from the room.

Boromir's heavy riding boots made a resounding clamour as he pounded up the smooth marble of the stairs to the high courtyard. He rushed out onto the flawlessly groomed grass, feeling the ominous wind of the rising storm slapping against his face. He stalked across the smooth lawn to the very point overlooking the entire city. This view had always soothed him, but not now. He pushed his hair out of his face, his mind in turmoil. Why was his father being so bull-headed about this? He knew as well as Boromir did that Faramir would _never_ run off like this… he must know. Boromir had never understood his father's attitude towards his younger son; he had always been hostile, unforgiving. Perhaps it was that he somehow connected Faramir with his wife's untimely death; perhaps it was because Faramir was not quite what Denethor wanted in a son. Faramir was quiet, peaceful. He was not meant for war. Boromir drew a deep, calming breath of the thick evening air; perhaps he was not meant for war either. This lifetime of fighting, a sword always at your side, always looking over your shoulder for the enemies that would always be there… it had sounded so much better in stories.

"My Lord?" He turned to see the servant girl from the Hall watching him with concern. Her straight brown hair fell about her narrow shoulders, and her head lay slightly to one side. She was not especially pretty, but she had a kind face that made one feel you could trust her. As he faced her, he caught the light, sweet smell of roses that always seemed to follow her. "May I get anything for you? I have prepared your chambers- would you like food sent up?"

"No, thank you. I have no stomach at the moment." She nodded, but did not withdraw. Her brow was creased, and she took a step towards him.

"My Lord, I… it is not my place, but… is all well with you?"

"I… never mind." She nodded, but still did not withdraw.

"What of… what of the Lord Faramir. Why-" she glanced quickly over her shoulder and dropped her voice. "Why has the High Lord forbidden all servants to speak of him?" Boromir gaped.

"He has done that?" He growled. She looked a little frightened.

"I am sorry my Lord, I should not have-"

"No, no, it's fine. My apologies, I was not angry with you." There was silence for a moment as the girl gained courage again.

"Is… is the Lord Faramir all right, my Lord?" Boromir gazed at her for a moment, then sighed and turned away.

"I don't know. I hope so." She was silent behind him.

"Indeed, my Lord. Thank you." She quickly withdrew. He turned and watched her go. He knew she was especially worried about Faramir. She had been one of his personal servants before their father decided a young girl, however plain, wasn't something his younger son should have control of. She now went everywhere in the castle, transporting personal messages and running errands for the nobility of the castle. Denethor was forever screaming at her for some misdemeanour; she seemed to gall him unusually. It was surprising she had spoken to him at all. She was very quiet, and he had never heard her speak to a noble before outside of her duties. Well, people will always surprise you, he thought bitterly.

Boromir rested his hands on the cool stone of the wall and leant over it, gazing down and the noble, beautiful city spread out before him, falling down from tier to tier to the wide, open plains which stretched endlessly east and west. Smoke curled from the crumbled, ruined remains of what had once been the city of Osgiliath. It burned like a hot coal in Boromir's chest to think of the filthy orcs defiling it, and for a moment, he also felt a taste of his father's anger towards Faramir; but he quickly shoved it down. It was inevitable that this last outpost of defence would also fall to the inexorable onslaught of the enemy. The dark cloud with its deep, burning red centre hovered over the distant mountains like some irremovable stain on the land. Boromir dug his fingernails harder into the stone in both anxiety and anger. Was there any way to stop an unstoppable force?

Boromir dragged his eyes away. He had a very pressing matter at hand. He knew it would be very dangerous to disobey his father; Denethor was a deadly man. If you crossed him, nothing you could do or had ever done before would save you. Boromir shuddered a bit inwardly. He both loved and feared his father, an unwise combination. Denethor was hard to fathom. One moment, he was calm, diplomatic, reasonable; the next, he was lost to madness, blind with rage, ready to deny his own son. Then, there was the inbetween stage, more dangerous than the others by far. In this, Denethor became as outwardly calm and controlled as a stone; but he was like a coiled serpent, waiting to strike. He would strike at your closest and dearest, where he knew it would cause you the most pain. There was no measure to how far he would go to destroy you and everything you loved. Thankfully, this mood rarely came to Denethor. Boromir had seen it happen only twice. Those times he did not dare to think about.

As the thoughts drifted through his head, Boromir's eyes drifted westwards along the spiralling, curving serpent of the road. A small movement far off in the distance now snapped his attention back to earth. A lone, minuscule speck was rapidly moving towards the city, not more than an hour off. Boromir strained his eyes, trying to make out some sort of figure. Suddenly, the clouds broke apart and an eerily bright patch of light fell on the traveller. Boromir's eyes snapped wide open as recognition dawned. He whirled about and raced back into the palace. A short time later, Boromir stood at the gate of the uppermost level of the city, watching as a horse galloped up the cobbled streets toward him. The horse jolted to a stop in front of him, tossing its head and dancing about as its rider dismounted. Boromir smiled and grasped the hand of the other.

"Welcome Gandalf."

TBC


	4. Waiting

A/N: Aah, the inevitable flashback time! Oh man, I love angst! So, this is not a plot-relevant chapter, you can skip it if you're in it for the plot not the writing and suffering- which I doubt, since who is? So, there are many... allegorical points to this chapter.

CHAPTER 4: Waiting

Faramir lay on the cold floor of his cell, shivering in the icy cold of early morning. Judging by the slight lessening of the darkness of the sky, the sun had risen, although no rays fell through the window to warm him. A bone-chilling damp blanket had settled over him, so frigid he almost couldn't bear it. His bruises throbbed painfully, allying with the cold to keep him from sleep all that night.

He sat in dazed misery for a long time. His tongue felt like a piece of cotton; he had not drank since early the morning he had been taken. When had that even been? How long had he lain, unconscious, in his cell before yesterday's painful episode? Perhaps just one, perhaps several. He tried to think around the pain in his head. What was he to do? He couldn't just wait here..yet that seemed to be all there was to do. Escape would be impossible, resistance unadvisable. Faramir sighed, wincing at the pain in his ribs. Being helpless was the one thing he hated more than doing nothing.

Those hours were some of the longest of Faramir's life. He could not pace with his feet chained to the wall, so he had to content himself with rolling over and over and over until the chains became so tangled he had to spend half an hour sorting them. The worst thing about the body having nothing to do is that the mind begins to work extra hard. Faramir found himself having strange conversations with no one, the two parts of his mind warring for the stronger logic.

_"I can't just sit here."_

"What else can I do?"

_"Think of a way out."_

"There is none."

"I just haven't thought hard enough."

"I don't need to think. It's impossible."

"It had better not be, because it's the only way I'll get out."

"They'll release me when father pays them."

_"Will they?"_

"Why wouldn't they?"

_"Why would they? Besides, what makes me think father will pay at all?"_

"Of course he will! I'm being foolish."

"What makes me so sure? If I were him, I wouldn't pay."

"But he's my father, he has to."

_"Who's going to make him?"_

"Boromir."

"Not even Boromir has enough power over father to make him pay whatever enormous sum they're going to ask. The very fact that Boromir is there will keep father from paying. Why does he need me when he has him?"

"I am still his son."

_"He doesn't seem to care." _Faramir had to concede. His father didn't seem to care. He hadn't cared that the life of Faramir and the lives of countless others would have been lost just to hold Osgiliath a few moments longer. He hadn't seemed to care that the death of his wife and Faramir's mother had nearly killed both of them, not just himself. He hadn't seemed to care when Faramir was born. Why should he care when Faramir died? And he had no doubt that he would die if his father didn't pay. Faramir lay still for a long time, turning this over in his mind. He had the same conversation over and over with himself, and he always ended up with the same result. His father had never cared before, why should he care now? It was a thought that seemed to make the cold around Faramir irrelevant to the chill in his soul.

-------------------

_A teary-eyed child sat alone on a cold stone bench, clutching his arm, his lip quivering. The grey November wind ruffled his dark hair as he sat waiting. He winced as he shifted uncomfortably, pain lancing through his broken arm. He wanted his father. He knew his father would be angry he had been riding a horse instead of his own pony, but he was nine after all, and he should have a horse. Not that this would make his father any more inclined to think so, he thought regretfully. He turned with anticipation and nervousness as he heard the door onto the terrace swing open. His face fell as he saw, not his father, but a strict-looking woman holding a bulging bag in her hand. His father had not come. He hadn't come to make sure his son was all right. He could not even manage that. The boy looked with a slight hope around the woman for his brother, who had gone running to fetch his father when he had fallen. But he was not there either. The child did not attempt to hide his tears now as he sat shivering on the cold bench, all alone._

-------------------

Faramir pulled himself as close to the tiny window as he could. The sun had risen above the top of the window, signalling midday of what he suspected to be his third day in this prison. His stomach had long ago given up aching with melting hunger. He had never felt so trapped in all his life. To do nothing but wait and wonder and worry seemed almost too much to bear. He was so bored and restless with his own thoughts he wanted to rip his head off before he travelled the same mental path as a thousand times before. He was unable to pass the time by sleeping, because his body and mind refused to settle. All his bruises had turned brilliant blue, and amused himself by counting them over and over again. He had twenty-three. Twenty-three, twenty-three, twenty-three, every time.

Twenty three….

-----------------------

_Twenty three. That was how many bruises he had. Everywhere his father's cane could reach, there was a long, thin, navy bruise. Twenty three was more than he had ever had before. His father must have been having a very bad day that day. His fingers traced a long, pink scar running down his right arm. His father had been having a bad day that day too. _

_He scraped a trail through the dust and chaff carpeting the floor. The smell of horses and rotting wood comforted him. It was where he always fled when his father was angry at him. He was here a lot. He didn't know why he made his father so angry, but he wished that, whatever it was, he could fix it. He felt his throat tighten, and his eyes prickled. He held his breath and forced his eyes wide open, pleading with himself not to cry. Thirteen-year-old boys shouldn't cry. Only cowards cried. His father and brother never cried. But he did. He laid his head on his knees, tears streaming down his face._

--------------------

Late afternoon sun poured invitingly through the window, as if mocking him that he could not be out in it. Faramir ground his face into the rough stone of the floor, trying to make his mind stop talking to him. The thoughts kept coming, unwanted and unexpected, into his head, and he couldn't stop them until they were already there. It shouldn't be taking this long. Why was nothing happening? Three days now he had been trapped in the unresting torment of a lonely, unoccupied mind. He would have been glad even of another beating, if only to have something change in this ever-shrinking prison. His body shuddered convulsively, shivers racing up and down his stiff spine. He twisted his fingers together, kicked the wall, pulled at the chains. He felt about to go mad. He wanted to scream his lungs out, but he didn't dare. But he never had.

------------------------------

Faramir flung the door of his room shut, trembling with strangled emotion. His breath barely came at all, so hard was he trying to keep his rage and sorrow locked in his stomach where it was safe. He buried his fists in his hair, yanking at it as he tried to calm himself. Always he was wrong, always it was his fault. He could do nothing right. Why? Why couldn't he? Why was no one else ever wrong? Why was Boromir never wrong? Faramir flung himself about the room, feeling on the verge of exploding. He wanted to scream his frustration out to everything and anything; he just wanted to scream. But he couldn't. He could never scream at anyone or anything; screaming was for those who had a voice. He had none. And why should he? Slowly, Faramir felt the burning in his breast cool, pushed back until next time. Of course he was wrong. It was like his father said. He was always wrong.

----------------------------

The last lingering spark of light dropped from the window, joining the others in the realm of darkness. The fourth night had come. Faramir suddenly found he couldn't breathe. He was trapped. Trapped in this room, trapped in this life, trapped in himself. He couldn't escape this prison he had let himself be built into by always staying silent. It was drawing in ever closer about him now, choking him. No matter how loud he screamed, no matter how hard he fought, he would never escape this prison; his prison of silence.

Suddenly, the door opened.

TBC

A/N: Angst angst angst aaaangst! Angst out the wazoo! Angst in bloody great spadefuls! You gotta love it. What you _don't_ gotta love is how hard it is to type "angst" over and over again. Who came up with that word? Like really, who would put "n-g-s-t" all in a row? A fathead who never used a keyboard obviously. Well I hope you all haven't been angsted up enough to have to start listening to Martin James and painting your nails black _just_ yet, because there is more- oh so much more!


	5. Done for

Chapter 5: Done for

The heavy wooden door swung slowly inwards, forming an ever-widening square of flickering torch-light that blinded Faramir for a moment from seeing its holder. As his eyes came back into focus, he beheld the wrathful figure of Dreyd, white-knuckled and breathing hard. Eeyrie was not with him. Faramir peered at him fearfully. What was he going to do? Dreyd just stood there for a moment, gritting his teeth.

"You're done for, brat." He hissed, advancing menacingly on Faramir. Faramir scrambled backwards into the corner, immediately wishing he was alone with his thoughts again. Dreyd seized him by the throat and heaved him up until his feet were almost a foot above the floor, pulling his face close to his. Faramir clawed at his iron fingers, gasping for breath, his eyes wide with fear. "Daddy wouldn't pay," he ground out. Faramir stopped fighting. He might as well have struck him across the face. Deep down he had been expecting it, but it still came as a horrible shock. So his father hadn't paid. His worst fears had come true.

The breath was slammed out of his chest as Dreyd rammed him against the wall. "I have no use for spoiled palace brats who aren't worth anything," he growled, shaking Faramir so hard his teeth rattled. Grabbing him by the hair, Dreyd smashed Faramir's head hard against the wall, stunning him. "So, I'm afraid your time is up." He almost smiled. Faramir gazed at him with blurred vision. He was different this time; controlled, calculating. For the first time he seemed to be considering what he was doing, and relishing it. It was twice as terrifying as his rage. He kicked him hard in the stomach, and Faramir gasped and doubled over in pain. "See, here I go through all this trouble just to get you, and first, you aren't even the man I was after. Now, just when I thought there might be hope, it turns out your father only needs one son." Dreyd drew back and kicked twice as hard, driven by his anger. "You can probably imagine how frustrating this is for me." He kicked him again in the ribs. He was enjoying this. "My Lady is not very pleased." Two more kicks, and Faramir was flat on the ground, gasping for air, groaning in pain. "And when my Lady is displeased, I am displeased." He grabbed Faramir and propped him on his feet again. He struck him one, two, three, four times across the face, holding him up by his hair. "It makes me wonder what you could have possibly done," Dreyd continued vindictively with his commentary as Faramir slid to the ground again, "to make your father value you as worthless." He had a running start this time as he brought his foot hard into Faramir's ribs. He gave a smirk of grim satisfaction as he felt several bones give beneath his boot. Faramir screamed in agony, and tried to curl into a ball to protect himself. But Dreyd wasn't finished. He put his foot right in Faramir's face. Faramir's hands flew up to his bleeding nose, and Dreyd took the opportunity to kick Faramir as hard as he could, right in his broken ribs. Faramir screamed and tried to roll over to face the wall. Dreyd bent down and wrenched him back again.

"Do you want me to break your spine instead?" He threatened coldy. Faramir flopped onto his back, gasping for air through his painful ribs. Dreyd put his heavy foot on the wrist of Faramir's outflung arm, and pressed down as hard as he could. Faramir cried out, clawing at Dreyd's ankle with his other hand, but Dreyd dug down harder and harder, until he heard the bone snap. He laughed aloud as Faramir screamed, cradling his hand close to his chest. Faramir tried again to curl into a little ball, his breath coming in ragged, painful sobs now. He had never known agony like this before, never in all his beatings and battles. This man had no pity or stopping point. He was trying to kill him. A cold terror constricted Faramir's chest as he huddled on the floor. He was going to die. His father had left him to this fate, left him to die at the cruel hands of a madman. Searing pain was lancing up Faramir's broken arm, clouding his thoughts. Every breath was made almost impossible by the debilitating pain in his chest. He could feel blood oozing stickily down his face and causing his shirt to cling to him.

Dreyd now started in with a new vehemence. No part of Faramir was left untouched, as Dreyd beat him tirelessly and mercilessly. He felt as though he were about to fall apart. He hovered on the edge of blackness; he screamed until he could scream no longer, and lay in an unmoving heap on the floor as Dreyd continued to rain blows on him, continually mocking and chastising him. Dreyd seemed further enraged by this silence.

"You worthless cur! You lay there like a dog, not even fighting back! Why do you not fight me? Are you too cowardly and weak to even defend your life? Fight!" He screamed until he was hoarse. Then, out of the blackness, a voice commanded loudly

"Stop!" Faramir felt the blows cease. He struggled to turn his head and opened his swollen eyes to see who was there. Eeyrie stood in the door, seeming to fill it. Her voice dropped back to its normal deep powerful hush. "Try to control yourself. Trust me, that time will come, but it has not yet." She strode across the room and placed herself between Faramir and Dreyd, who stood, snorting like a bull, and flexing his huge fists with the desire to continue to tear Faramir apart. "His father may not have paid this time, but we will try again. Even if he never pays, we will still have achieved what we wanted."

"I'm in this for the money." Dreyd snarled. Eeyrie snorted.

"You men and you money. Well, we will get our money. This time, we will be more persuasive." She glanced down at Faramir's sorry state. "I sincerely hope, Dreyd," she purred with ominous quiet, "that you have not killed him." She turned her piercing gaze upon the huge man. "We may yet need him, alive."

She turned back to Faramir, who gazed blearily at her. "Perhaps the Lord Denethor does not quite understand the seriousness of the situation. If this is the case, let us send him a token of our earnestness. We will send him another letter, but this time, we will send some token of his son to show him our legitimacy." She looked down at the crushed hand Faramir was holding, trying to keep safe. "That pretty ring, perhaps…" She murmured. "Give me your knife, Dreyd." He handed her a long, cruel-looking dagger. She reached down and tried to pull Faramir's arm away from his body. Faramir struggled weakly, trying to keep his injured limb safe. Growing impatient, Eeyrie wrenched his hand with surprising strength, causing him to yelp in pain. She examined the gold signet ring upon Faramir's little finger, set with a shining red stone. "Yes, this will do nicely." She smiled humourlessly. Pinning his hand on the ground, she forced the fingers out so they lay flat. "Dreyd, hold him." Dreyd placed his heavy foot on Faramir's arm just below the shoulder, stopping him from pulling away. Eeyrie raised the dagger, and before Faramir knew what was happening, she brought it down on his hand, severing his finger along with the ring. Piercing screams echoed off the stone walls, bouncing back and magnifying, until they suddenly, hauntingly, stopped.

TBC


	6. Help comes by an old friend

Chapter 6: Help comes by an old friend

Gandalf's warm grey eyes crinkled as a benevolent smile spread across his face. He showed no sign of the concern he felt as he surreptitiously studied the deep creases in the young man's face. "Greetings, Lord Boromir. It has been ages since we met! How pleasant it is to see you. Is your father well? And your brother?" Gandalf narrowed his eyes slightly as, at the mention of his brother, something flickered briefly across Boromir's face. However, he quickly regained his composure and, ignoring the question, gestured towards the door, bowing slightly.

"You are welcome in my house and the house of my father, Mithrandir. Enter and accept our hospitality." Boromir averted his gaze from Gandalf as he passed into the hall, but he could feel the old man's keen eyes slicing through his calm exterior. It was useless to try and hide something from Gandalf- somehow he just always knew. Gandalf strode into the cool, somewhat musty entrance hall. The walls were hung with once-bright tapestries, and two stone-faced guards stood on either side of the doorway. Gandalf peered around at the long stone hallway that could be seen just beyond the door. He paused a moment to wait for Boromir to come level with him, and the two started off walking side by side, past the guards and into the palace. Inside everything was cool and white and full of strange, amplifying echoes of the slightest of movement. Gandalf listened for a moment to the reply of their footsteps before he turned his piercing gaze on Boromir again.

"Now, Boromir. Tell me all that has happened." Boromir darted a quick, sidelong glance at him.

"What is it you speak of, Gandalf?"

"I do not know, which is why I ask you." Gandalf replied, smiling slightly. "I have walked this earth many years, Boromir, and I can see as well into the hearts of men as if they were an open page." Boromir smiled wryly.

"Very well, Gandalf. You have read me well. But please, hold a while until we have reached a more withdrawn place." Gandalf nodded and followed Boromir's gaze to one of the many hovering, shadow-like servants flitting about in the shade of one of the white marble pillars.

A minute later, they entered Boromir's expansive rooms, and a young man came over to them. This was Garan, Boromir's closest servant. He had been brought from the South when he was only a lad, and had been given to Boromir as a guard to stand outside his door at night. However, he had become more of a personal servant, running errands and helping with anything his master needed. He bowed, coming back up beaming, revealing a set of shockingly white teeth in his brown face. He always smiled. Boromir had asked him why once, and he had simply responded, "because I have precious little to smile about."

"Your rooms are ready, my Lord. I personally saw to it." He set the tray with jug and goblet on the low table, and turned and gave a low bow to Gandalf. "Welcome sir." He looked at Boromir. "I'm sorry my Lord, I did not realise you had a guest. I will just go and fetch more wine and another glass." Boromir nodded to him distractedly.

"Thank you, Garan. Then you and all the servants may leave." Something akin to concern and suspicion flickered through his eyes a moment, but was quickly replaced with the white grin. He nodded quickly and turned and left. The two sat opposite each other on the low couches of the outer sitting room. They sat in silence until the servant returned with the wine.

"Here you are, sirs," he said quietly, placing the tray on the table and flashing another smile. "The other servants have left, and I'll be on my way now."

"Garan, could you please see to it that quarters are prepared for Gandalf?"

"Certainly sir," he replied with an even wider grin, and bowed out. As the door closed softly behind him, Boromir turned to Gandalf. "Please forgive this secrecy, Gandalf, but what I am about to speak of my father has forbidden ever to be mentioned again."

"And what is that?" Gandalf asked, raising one eyebrow, thinking of many things that Denethor had forbidden.

"Faramir." Gandalf froze. This was a new one. Perhaps not entirely unexpected, but still a shock.

"Tell me." Boromir ran a hand wearily through his hair, sinking into a chair opposite Gandalf.

"You have, I'm sure, heard by now of the fall of Osgiliath." Gandalf nodded gravely. "What you have not, perhaps, heard, was that Faramir was put in command of the regiment only days before Osgiliath fell." Gandalf did not try to hide his astonishment, but held his tongue. "I was, at the time, out on an expedition commanded by my Lord the Steward, in order to survey… _his_ lands, and see to it that everything was as well as it could be. On my journey home, word reached me of Faramir's defeat at Osgiliath, and I rode ahead of my convoy as fast as I could home. When I arrived, I found that Faramir had completely disappeared the night after the defeat. My Lord Father is convinced Faramir has fled battle in cowardice, and has denied him as his son and forbidden his name ever spoken in his presence again." Gandalf sat silently for a long while, solemnly receiving the story without comment.

"You do not believe Faramir has fled." It was not a question.

"Do you?" Gandalf sat silently for a time once more.

"I do not believe Faramir has fled of cowardice." Boromir looked at him keenly.

"But you suspect he may have fled?" Gandalf met Boromir's gaze and held it.

"Could you hold it against him?" Both were silent. Boromir looked at Gandalf, somewhat uncomfortable. He knew Gandalf well, but he had always been more Faramir's friend than his own. Boromir had never been quite able to shake the feeling that whenever Gandalf "dropped in" to give council or to aid the steward, he was really just there to see that Faramir was well. They had often talked late into the night together; Boromir knew his brother had confided things in the old man he would never have said to anyone else- not even him. Boromir leant heavily backwards against the chair, rubbing his hand over his face. His entire life his younger brother had borne the brunt of their father's displeasure, bearing it without a word of complaint. Boromir could never guess what that had been like. He had never stood up for his brother before; the control his father wielded over both of them like a battleaxe had been enough to cause him to keep to himself. He had stood by time and time again as his father had scolded and chided and humiliated his little brother, often for things that were not even his fault. He could well imagine his father's response to the loss of Osgiliath; he knew the blame would be entirely upon Faramir's head. Perhaps this was the time that Faramir had no longer been willing to tolerate his father's never-ending stream of criticism. And he knew what Gandalf said was true: he could never hold it against him.

"If what you say is true," began Boromir slowly, "then this raises many more questions and worries. Where will Faramir go? What will he do? He has no trade or skill besides that of a soldier, and he has no great love for that. This is not a good time to be alone in the world with no money, no home, and no family to speak of. The people have become hard and uncharitable from suffering and want, and the roads are dangerous, both from orcs and desperate men." Gandalf gazed sombrely at the anxious young man who sat across from him, his head in his hands.

"I am afraid that there is nothing more we can now do for Faramir. He must begin to do things for himself. We may now have far bigger worries. The fall of Osgiliath is a devastating blow to your defence, and it is imperative that it must be regained." Seeing the others' face fall, Gandalf leant forward and placed a comforting hand on Boromir's shoulder "Do not be troubled overmuch, Boromir. Faramir is clever and resourceful, and you will be surprised what any man can endure and overcome when driven to it. Faramir will be fine. I am certain that, as soon as he has opportunity, he will send you word." Boromir nodded, only slightly comforted. Gandalf smiled reassuringly and rose to leave. Boromir saw him out, giving instructions to one of the waiting servants to show him to his quarters, then returned to his couch to think.

Boromir was not wholly satisfied with the idea that Faramir had left of his own accord. Gandalf's reasoning, although sound, still left Boromir with many doubts. As he sat and thought about it he realised that, in thinking that he would not have blamed Faramir for leaving under those conditions, he was really saying he would not have blamed himself. He was thinking of what _he_ would have done in that situation. If he were Faramir, he would have left long ago. But Faramir was far more patient, far more reserved that Boromir was. It had always been that way, even when they were children. When they were bickering, it was Boromir who had done the shouting, and Faramir who had done the apologising. Boromir only dimly remembered that his mother had been much like that. He supposed, when he thought about it, Faramir was much like his mother, and he was uncomfortably similar to his father. Perhaps that was why Denethor could not stand to be with Faramir: he reminded him painfully of the wife he had lost- the wife no son could ever replace. Well, the same restraint that was in Faramir's mother had kept him here and tolerant of his father's abuse his entire life; and, deep down, Boromir could not believe that he would leave now.

But Boromir knew that, if Faramir had not left, that did not leave many logical options as to what did happen. He could think of several illogical explanations, but he quickly pushed them away. Even if it didn't ring quite true, that explanation was the most logical. After all, how well did he _really_ know his brother? When they were younger, they had been very close, but had begun to drift apart as the war and their father grew more hostile and devastating to both of them. People can change drastically the moment you turn your back; perhaps Faramir truly had grown weary of the constant abuse he received while here. Like Gandalf said, he could not have blamed him. 

Thus, Boromir stifled his doubts and rose to make his way to Gandalf's room. Gandalf was not very high in his father's favour, so Boromir thought it would be best if he accompanied Gandalf to the preliminary meeting.

He met Gandalf in the hall, a few yards from his room on his way to the throne hall. Gandalf seemed glad of Boromir's company on what was always an unpleasant initial meeting between the two great men. As they stood before the massive carved doors, waiting while the crier introduced them, they exchanged brief uncertain glances. Then, the doors were swung wide, revealing the dimly lit hall. They strode up the considerable length of the hall level with each other, their footsteps ringing eerily in the stillness. They stopped with a clack of Gandalf's staff directly in front of the lower throne in which sat the upright, proud form of Denethor. He glared coldly at old and young man alike, his fists clenched on the broad arms of the chair.

"Gandalf Mithrandir," he said icily. "What dire errand has brought you again to my kingdom?"

"It is not your kingdom to ask me thus." Gandalf said with equal frigidity. "Tell me Denethor, _Steward_ of Gondor, why is it you insist on being so pig-headed?" Boromir closed his eyes with dread. Denethor sat even further upright.

"Be careful old man," he snapped, holding up a warning hand. "You have no power here. You had best have respect for those superior to you."

"Superior to me? Denethor you fool! You would rather bear your pride to the grave than give an inch! Have you no love in your heart for your son? He has been missing for three days! The best way you can think to express your anger and fear and hurt is to call him a coward and a traitor and banish his very name from your hearing! It is a true mark of the greatness of its people that this land has stood yet this long! If you do not change your ways, you will bring yourself, your country, and your sons to ruin! The loss of Osgiliath marks the beginning of a desperate time in the battle against Mordor. We have no time or men to waste on petty squabbles and battles of hatred. It is your unfortunately placed responsibility to lead this land to victory. How can you do that when all your time is spent gazing into the distance, seeking for something else you wish you had, so that you can destroy it! Think of Boromir!" Gandalf lifted his staff in Boromir's direction. "He is one day meant to be ruler! How is he to rule his people fairly and wisely when all he has seen has been the folly of his father?" Denethor leapt to his feet, his face livid with rage.

"You baneful old enchanter! How dare you come to me in my own house and fill my son's head with lies and speak such treason!"

"And what of your other son? Have you so quickly forgotten him?" Denethor appeared to be about to call the guards, but then subsided.

"I have no other son." He growled, then sat down and said no more. Gandalf sighed heavily.

"Denethor, you fatuous man. You cannot see past your own pride and selfishness. You personify all your sins and mistakes in your younger son who has never done you any harm. If you think Faramir has fled a coward, you do not know him at all. And if you think this war will be won by sticking out your spines and burying your head in the sand, then the war is already lost. However there is nothing more I can now say." Gandalf turned and walked wearily from the room. Boromir turned to follow, but Denethor halted him with a sharp word.

"Boromir: I forbid you to hold further council with Mithrandir. You are my son, and you will not be poisoned by his lies." Denethor rose from his seat and moved towards him. "These are my lands. _Our_ lands, my son." He placed his hands on Boromir's shoulders. Boromir stiffened uncomfortably. "We cannot allow our enemies to destroy us. This great kingdom and its people will one day be upon your shoulders, my son; then you will understand." Boromir started to turn away. "We cannot trust anyone, my son. If they are not our friends, then they are our enemies, and they must be destroyed." There was an oddly keen glint in Denethor's eyes as he said this, and his fingers dug with strange intensity into Boromir's shoulders. Boromir stared at his father for a moment, then turned and left.As soon as he was out of the hall, he broke into a run and quickly found Gandalf, leaning heavily against a wall. As Gandalf spotted him, he smiled weakly.

"Ah, Boromir. These confrontations weigh on me much heavier than they used to." He straightened and placed a hand on Boromir's shoulder. "Do not judge your father too harshly by this Boromir. In his hurt and anger, he does not see, but lashes out like an injured animal, attacking even those who try to help him." Boromir nodded, his mind in turmoil. He could not help but feel that he had just now seen a glimpse of his father's true nature, exposed and undisguised. He was not given leave to think on it.

"My Lord! Sirs!" Ade came galloping up to them, breathing hard and obviously distressed. Boromir looked at her in alarm. She bowed quickly, trying to catch her breath.

"My- my lords! My Lord Denethor urgently b-bids you return to his illustrious p-presence!" Boromir and Gandalf exchanged apprehensive glances, then quickly hurried off to the throne hall. They burst in without waiting to be announced, and they saw Denethor, slumped in his chair, his face as white as a ghost, his eyes staring, a piece of paper dangling from his hand. Boromir ran over and snatched the letter from his father's hands and read it silently. As his eyes travelled over the page, his knees began to buckle and he slid to the floor, his eyes staring blankly ahead. Gandalf gently tugged the letter from his limp hand and read it aloud:

"'_Lord Denethor, Steward of Gondor:_

_We have captured your son and now hold him, alive and secure. You will give us 2000 pounds gold worth, and we will give you your son alive. You will put the payment in an empty boat and release it down the river before the next sunset. When we have retrieved the payment, we will release your son. Just so you do not doubt us, here is something to prove our words.'_

"Signed below is Faramir's name, written by his own hand." Gandalf raised his eyes to the distraught father and son. "So… Faramir has not fled- either from cowardice or anger. He has been taken."


	7. Decisions

A/N: Hello faithful readers! I have been a very bad updater! I'm sorry… So to reward your patience I have… duh duh duh duuuuh! Two chapters!!!! (… yaaay!)

Chapter 7: Decisions

Boromir sped from place to place, bellowing orders with such furious rapidity the men could barely understand him.

"Get those horses saddled! Never mind rations, we won't be needing many. Make sure that weapon is secure, Alban; you'll be needing it. Mind those beasts! Pick up the pace men, we move out in ten minutes!" Gandalf trailed behind, desperately attempting to gain his attention.

"Boromir, wait! What is it you plan on doing? You cannot surely be intending to go running like a madman across the land with no knowledge of where to begin looking!"

"I'm sorry Gandalf, I don't have time just now. You there, get those quivers passed out!"

"But you have virtually no chance of finding him! He has been gone for three days, he could be absolutely anywhere; the plains, the mountains, the river! If they took a boat they could to the ocean by now!"

"I will not just sit and wait! Captain, load up!" Gandalf seized Boromir and spun him round to face him.

"Heed me boy!" He commanded. "You must not act in such haste! We must rationally decide upon a course of action, not just go charging out into a vast and dangerous country with little preparation and no idea of where to start! You endanger the lives of many men by doing this and accomplish little to help Faramir." Boromir tried to pull away, but Gandalf grabbed him harder and gave him a little shake. "Do not be as hot-headed and foolish as your father! You must think these things through and consider all possibilities!" Boromir seemed about to speak, then sighed and slumped slightly. "Now, what of your father? What has he said he plans to do?" Boromir shook his head.

"I don't know. I have not spoken to him since earlier."

"Well let us first go to him and discuss what to do." Boromir nodded.

"Stand by, men."

As they entered the hall they saw Denethor leaning heavily against a pillar with his back to them, the crumpled letter still in his hand. They approached cautiously, unsure of what temper he would be in. When they were a few paces behind him, Boromir cleared his throat. Denethor whirled around and winced when he saw them.

"Boromir… Gandalf." He greeted them distractedly. "What is it?"

"Father… we… what have you decided… what are you going to do?" Boromir asked, swallowing carefully. Denethor's eyes darted upwards but did not meet theirs.

"Gandalf, I'm afraid I must ask you to leave." Gandalf raised an eyebrow and glanced at Boromir.

"Perhaps I'd better stay."

"Damn it man do not defy me in my own house!" Denethor snapped, momentarily losing composure. Boromir nodded to Gandalf, and he reluctantly withdrew. Denethor turned so Boromir could only see a small part of his face. "My son… my son, do you understand the decision I am being called upon to make here today?"

"I understand you are deciding whether or not to let your son live." Boromir replied coldly. Denethor shook his head wearily.

"Boromir, I love Faramir. I know it may not always seem like it, but I do. But I also love this land and its people. And 2000 pounds gold worth, Boromir… do you understand how much that is? That is nearly enough to buy the entire lowest level of this city. I doubt there is even that much in the treasury."

"Well we can get it from other places- we will make a collection, we can melt down ornaments, we can even sell things if we need to."

"No, no." Denethor rubbed a hand over his face. "War has sucked at this country for too long. We are running dry. I do not think we can do it."

"You mean you are refusing to pay?" Boromir choked out each word as though it hurt him.

"I… This country is fighting an ever-losing battle. We are rapidly losing capital as it is… They ask… so much! It is too much."

"Too much to pay for your own child?" Boromir hissed sharply. Denethor prickled, but avoided his eye.

"I am only thinking of what is best for the country."

"You are laying a death sentence on your son!" Boromir screamed. His voice echoed off the marble walls, playing the sentence over and over again in the silence that followed. Denethor stared at him for a moment, and turned away.

"I'm sorry…"

"You cannot do this!"

"Do not forget yourself, Boromir!" Denethor thundered back, losing his calm. "You are not ruler yet! You do not understand everything that presses on me to put it first! I am responsible for this land and its people- all of them Boromir, not just one! Do you not think this decision pains me? Do you not think it tears my heart asunder to surrender my own son?" Boromir stared at him, anger and hatred blistering out of his eyes.

"No. I don't think it does." He said quietly and, before his father could respond, turned and stalked out of the room.

Gandalf raced through the halls, searching about for Boromir. Since the news had reached his ears by way of Ade he had been running through the palace in search of him. There was no knowing what he would do; he was so impulsive and hot-headed. Gandalf would not have put it past him to have leapt on his horse and ridden off alone, his sword in the air, looking for someone to rend to pieces. Then he spotted him: there, standing out on the high terrace, silhouetted against the night sky, stood Boromir, his head bent low. Gandalf cautiously approached him from behind. The young man stood leaning over the stone wall, gazing down on his city.

"Boromir?" Gandalf lightly touched his shoulder. Boromir jumped, startled. He turned his head slightly to see who had spoken to him.

"Ah! Gandalf, I beg pardon, you startled me." He cleared his throat. "Did you require something?" Gandalf gave a small, sad smile.

"Too courteous, young Boromir. You are not on display, there is no need for forced calm." Boromir turned back to gaze out over the dim land. The smallest sliver of moon was supplemented by a thousand blazing stars high above, and the water of the Great River shimmered in the distance. A slight breeze stirred, and sent a quick chill down Gandalf's spine. He gazed keenly at Boromir, trying to decipher how he was feeling. Boromir's hair hid his face as he leaned out over the wall, very still and silent. "Boromir…" Gandalf began again. "I know how you are feeling now. I have had loved ones lost or in danger as well. What your father has done is inexcusable. You need not hide your grief-" Boromir suddenly cut in, his voice low and surprisingly intense.

"I am not forcing calm, Gandalf. I am calm because I am afraid that if I feel anything else, I will never be calm again." His knuckles grew white as they gripped the cold stone. "You can not begin to imagine, Gandalf, the things that plunge through my head at this moment." He said with the slightest catch in his voice. He finally turned to face him, and his eyes glinted unnaturally bright in the glossy light. "Do not pretend you know how I am feeling at this moment." He turned quickly back to look out over the land. "You have no family, and thus can not even begin to comprehend the enormous weight that lies on your heart when they are in danger and you can do absolutely nothing to help." Boromir's voice finally broke. "Many of my comrades have been lost to me before- men I knew and loved for many years. The pain I felt at losing them only scratched the surface of the pain I am feeling now. I had always been aware- and I hoped, prepared- for the fact that I might lose my family, ever since my dear mother, blessings be upon her, departed from us. But to lose your brother and your father in the same stroke is almost too much to bear. For truly I have lost them both Gandalf- one betraying, the other betrayed. I must sit, with my hands folded, and my face smiling, as my brother is murdered by my father. I am left here to watch the dying of one's soul, and imagine the perishing of the other's body." He turned his head, a piercing stare on Gandalf, and his voice became a tortured hiss. "So do not pretend, Gandalf, that you understand the pain that physically tears and devours my heart at this moment, because you know nothing of it!" Boromir turned back abruptly to gaze out over the plain, his shoulders hunched and rigid. Gandalf stared at him with tears in his eyes. Not even after all his years could he think what he should do. Boromir's shoulder's suddenly slumped. "It would be far better for me now to leap from this balcony and make the ruin of my family complete," he said quietly. He stared down through the hundreds of feet of empty air below him for a moment, leaning far out over the low wall. Then he took a step back. "But alas," he said, turning to Gandalf, completely emotionless now, "I lack the strength even for that." Then he turned and walked away. The cold moon looked down on the old man, sitting on the cold stone with his head in his hands, and watched as the young man strode away.


	8. Intentions

A/N: Hello faithful readers! I have been a very bad updater! I'm sorry… So to reward your patience I have… duh duh duh duuuuh! Two chapters!!!! (… yaaay!)

Chapter 8: Intentions

Boromir sat, his chin resting on his palm, staring unseeingly at the opposite wall. He refused to let his mind work as it pushed and prodded to be heard. The early morning sun trickled in at his window, and a slight breeze stirred the curtains. It promised to be a beautiful day, but it was wasted on Boromir. He had sat thus since last night, gazing blankly. He did not know how much longer he would sit like that. He did not notice that he had not eaten or drunk since his return the day before, or that he could not feel his legs from sitting so long in the same position.

He heard a soft cough behind him. He turned to see Ade standing in the doorway. She looked a little embarrassed and hurried forward.

"My Lord, I have brought you some food." She set a tray down on the table, and removed the cover to reveal a large meal and a pitcher of wine.

"I'm not hungry," Boromir said, rubbing his hand over his face.

"Certainly my Lord. But it would be a shame to waste it don't you think? It looks so nice, and all." With a small smile, she curtseyed and left. Boromir stared at the food for a while. Why was she bringing him food anyway? He had his own servants- where was Garan? He turned away from the tray and rose to his feet, moving to look out the window. Was Faramir getting any food? How could he eat if his brother was not? Boromir leant out over the windowsill, gazing at the sun rising over the barren plains, bathing everything in liquid golden light. His younger brother was somewhere out there, but he would probably never see him again. He was ashamed of his own weakness; he could not stand up to his father even to save his brother. Every man under his command considered him a strong, confidant leader on the battlefield. Why could he not be the same with his father? What would his men think if they saw him now? Surrendering the life of his own brother. It was probably better that they knew nothing of what went on behind closed doors; of how quickly he surrendered to so unimpressive an enemy.

Boromir pulled himself up to sit on the windowsill, watching as the sun continued to rise ever so slowly over the horizon. The breeze, still with the chill touch of dawn, swirled in around him, and he shuddered slightly. Winter would be coming soon, and all the difficulties that came with it. The mountain passes would close up, and many of their cities would be cut off from aid. This was when the orcs usually attacked the cities and villages- when they knew there was little or no chance of opposition.

Boromir turned at a sound behind him. He watched dispassionately as a rat leapt onto the table and began gnawing the food on the tray. What a curious looking rat too- grey, not brown like most. One would think there wouldn't be rats in a palace- not with his father about, they would have too much competition. Well, rats were the least of people's worries these days- especially his.

There was a knock on the door. The rat dove behind the couch; Boromir's gaze shifted to the door, but he did not answer. He waited as the knock came again. Then the door slowly, cautiously began to open. Gandalf entered and looked around. It was a moment before he spotted Boromir perched on the windowsill. The two faced each other silently for a moment, both unsure of how to begin. Finally Gandalf came and sat on the couch, silently marking the untouched food.

"Your father is very distressed, your servant Garan tells me. Perhaps you should go speak with him." Boromir looked back out over the plains.

"Garan tells far too much. Far more than his pay warrants him."

"You will not go speak with him." It was a statement. Boromir looked at him.

"Do you think I should?" Gandalf said nothing. "I wonder you do not ask me, Gandalf, what it is I intend to do." Gandalf leaned forward, his eyes intently on Boromir.

"What is it you intend to do Boromir?" Boromir smiled humourlessly.

"To get an answer to that question, you would have to speak to my father, seeing as how he is the ringmaster." Gandalf remained expressionless.

"You intend to do nothing." Boromir sprang from his windowsill.

"I _intend_ to do much, Gandalf," he said dryly. "It is what I _can_ do that is nothing." The two held each other's eyes for a long, silent moment. Then Gandalf rose to his feet, and walked towards the door. As he reached it, he turned back.

"Intentions are one thing Boromir. But what you can do is entirely up to you."

Boromir threw open the doors to the throne room and stormed in. Denethor looked up startled as Boromir marched up to him and stood to attention before the dais.

"What is this, my son? Why do you stand before me like a reporting sentry, clad in armour thus?"

"My Lord Steward, I come to inform you of the army's plans for the search and rescue of Lord Faramir, Captain of the Guard." Denethor gaped at him in confusion. Boromir barrelled ahead, afraid to stop talking lest he lose his nerve- or his ability. "There will be eight parties of eight men, and the armed and mounted parties will go in different directions, asking for information and looking for any signs that might lead them to likely places where he may be at this time held. The troops are at this moment in preparation for their journeys, and plan to move out… plan to move out…" Boromir trailed off as he realised he had lost his audience's attention. Denethor was staring past him, with the blanched, wide-eyed look of a man who is staring at a ghost. Boromir followed his gaze back to the wide-flung doors.

In the entrance stood Ade, with a similar but more verdant expression to the one Denethor was wearing. As they stared at her, she moved slowly and dazedly forward. Boromir saw that in her hands she held an oilskin envelope, which was oozing red all over her fingers. As she reached him, she extended the envelope in trembling hands towards him. He hesitated, then took it with equally tremorous fingers. Time seemed to stop as he loosened the seal and unfolded the page, his father watching over his shoulder.

Ade screamed and fell back against a pillar, and Denethor ran like a madman from the room, shrieking unintelligibly. Boromir stood where he was, staring down at the object which had rolled out into his hand. The room began to spin around him, and everything faded to black.


	9. Blood

Chapter 9: Blood

A crimson snake slithered along in the cracks of the flagstones, staining the mortar red, barely visible in the thick pitch of night. The gradually sinking moon spilled its last rays of light over the windowsill, showing only the slightest gleam on the thick pools of blood covering the floor. Ravenous flies, hungering for decaying flesh to feast on, followed the aroma of blood, clambering over the stiff, frozen form splayed on the floor, its feet chained to the wall. Suddenly, a finger twitched; there was a moan; the head fell to the side; the eyes flickered open. The disappointed flies scattered, cheated of their meal- for now.

"My eyes… what's wrong with my eyes?" His eyes stung as he pulled apart the blood-encrusted lashes. He saw everything as though through a red mist. His lips stuck together as he opened his mouth. The sickening metal taste was still there. Faramir flopped over onto his back, easing his legs out straight. He gazed at the invisible ceiling, his eyes glazed in pain. He turned his head slowly to look down the arm that still lay where it had been dropped. At the end of it lay a purple, bloated, streaky mass, sticky in a pool of drying blood. He saw something moving in it… small white things. His chest heaved painfully, and he turned just in time to vomit. Maggots. As he rested his head on his arm, he looked beside him. All that had come up was a cloudy white substance- white streaked with red. He carefully and deliberately placed his foot in a crack in the stones and pushed. It cost him all his limited strength as he managed to inch himself along, his arm dragging like a dead weed. He gritted his teeth in pain and moaned as the hand dragged along the rough stone, the bloody stub leaving behind a streak of red. He had only gotten a few inches when his foot slipped and he yelped in pain. His ribs… how many were broken now? What _wasn't_ broken now? He couldn't force himself to move again. He couldn't even turn his head. His throat constricted; he couldn't breathe. He coughed and wheezed, trying to draw air into his constricted lungs. He writhed about on the floor, his entire body as stiff as a board, as a sudden crushing wave of agony broke over him. Then the pain lessened to a dull fire, and he relaxed slightly. He coughed roughly, the fingers of his good hand clawing the floor as the bones of his ribs shifted, sending stabbing pains all through him. He carefully steadied his breathing and blinked rapidly, trying to clear his eyes. It all seemed so surreal. But the hot fire running through his body told him sharply that it was very real.

"Stay calm," he told himself. "Soon this will all be just a dim, distant memory. Just like all your other battles, all your other injuries." He thought of the long, raised scar on the back of his right shoulder from an orc blade that had sliced him over a year ago. He remembered that at the time, he had thought it the most painful thing he had ever experienced, but now it seemed dim and far-off, like it had happened to somebody else, or like he had read it in a book. A spastic shiver convulsed him as the frigid night air cooled his sweat, causing his skin to crawl.

He closed his eyes again as the salty sweat trickled into them. He mentally assessed himself. There didn't seem to be much left to assess. He ran his numb tongue along the roof of his mouth and over his cracked lips. How long was it now since he had had water? And how much longer would he survive without it? Hopefully not much longer- at least not long enough for his arm to turn black, and the flesh of it peel away, finally leaving the bone exposed. He had seen this happen to many unfortunate men after so many battles. It wouldn't be much longer now.

Away in the shadows, there came the sound of a quick scurry. Faramir's bloodshot eyes snapped to the shadowy corner, straining to see. Everything was silent and still. Then another scurry, from another corner. He jerked his gaze in that direction. As he squinted his eyes to try and see through the shadows, he saw another pair, burning and beady, staring back at him. He gave a sharp intake of breath as he realized what it was. A rat. The long, low, brown body sat motionless; watching, smelling- anticipating. Around the walls, more scurrying noises told of others. A cold wave of fear washed over Faramir. He began to pull his injured arm close to him, tucking it under his body. Then he realized; it wasn't just his arm that was drawing them. His entire body was drenched in blood from the cuts and gashes all over him. His gaze swept down over the blood-caked clothes, and the fresh streaks of blood he had left behind when he moved. Another scurry. His head snapped up. His eyes widened as they met the eyes of the rat no more than a foot from his face. With a fearsome yell, he struck out at the rat with his uninjured hand, sending it flying across the room. He heard it hit the wall with a loud squeak, and for a moment, the scurrying stopped. Then it began again, even faster this time. He backed closer against the wall, his eyes darting all around. They were beginning to come out of the shadows now, advancing towards him in short little darts. He yelped as one brushed his foot, and kicked out savagely. The rat jumped aside at the last second, and made another dash for him. This time it sank its teeth low in his calf. He yelped in pain. The other rats saw victory, and they fell upon him hungrily.

Boromir found himself standing in his room, though he didn't remember how he had gotten there. He gazed down at the vermilion streaks on his hands. He felt his entire body go cold, and he felt like he was going to black out again. He could not tear his eyes from the blood on his hands. He felt a jolt like a knife going through his stomach as he remembered how it had felt when the thing had rolled into his hand. His hands trembled violently, and he felt like he was going to be sick. The cold band of gold just above the bloody stump; he remembered the day he had given it to his brother just as if it had been that morning.

He had raced into the garden where Faramir had been sitting reading, bursting with excitement to tell him the news. His father had finally consented to let Boromir promote the boy! He remembered wrapping his little brother in a rough and rather embarrassed hug, and pressing the ring into his hand.

This time Boromir really was sick, as he could not push back the vision of his brother, screaming in agony as his finger was severed from his hand. How could he have let this happen? He was his older brother; it was his responsibility to protect him. Surely not even Denethor could refuse to let him help now. He had to find his father.

His father found him. At that moment Denethor burst into the room, his eyes wild. He lunged at Boromir, seizing him by the shoulders, a wild look in his eyes. "Fly to your horse, Boromir. I send you with the payment to retrieve my son." Boromir resisted the urge to stagger backwards. Where had his father gotten the money? But Denethor had already turned and bolted back out the door, and he could hear yelling in the corridor. Less than five minutes later Boromir was running out the door to the stables. He collided with Gandalf, almost knocking the old man over.

"Gandalf, I go now to bring Faramir home!" Boromir could not hide the excitement in his voice. Gandalf seized Boromir by the sleeve and dragged him to the side of the busy street.

"Boromir, I beg your patience for a moment. I would strongly advise against you yourself going- I think it is most unwise."

"Unwise? But Gandalf-"

"No Boromir, do not interrupt. I know you are anxious to rescue your brother. But I cannot help but feel that it is folly for you to go. Something about this does not feel right. Have you not wondered why it was that these men came after Faramir?"

"Because he is the High Steward's son! He would fetch the highest ransom in the land, aside from the Steward himself!"

"Or," Gandalf looked at him keenly, "you."

"Me?" Boromir said, surprised.

"Yes Boromir. I still cannot understand why it was Faramir who was taken when… to be quite blunt, you are far more worth their while."

"What are you saying Gandalf?"

"I'm trying to say-"

"My Lord!" A tall young man in riding mail with a stamp of rank on the shoulder plate strode across the courtyard. Halting before them, he made a stiff salute. "My Lord, I beg pardon. I have just been delivered my orders, and I must speak to you. Sir, you order that we must depart within the hour with twenty armed men. My Lord and Captain, you yourself must know that cannot be done! Twenty men do not just appear armed and ready for a journey; the horses must be prepared and provisions gathered, and-"

"Alban, you are a Captain, correct?"

"Yes, my Lord," the young man looked wary.

"And how did you become Captain?" He drew himself up.

"Why, by saving your life, my Lord."

"Yes, and right now, that is the only thing preventing me from running you through. Use your influence as a Captain and do what needs to be done. How can you survive in battle if you cannot be ready?" The Captain nodded tersely and, with a salute and a bow, turned on his heel and stalked off. "You were saying Gandalf?"

"Eh? Oh yes, I was saying-" Suddenly Garan came trotting down the hill waving a hand. He bowed low, his shining smile greeting them.

"Beg pardon, masters. His Lordship the Steward wishes the Lord Boromir to have this, to present to Lord Faramir when he is safely on his way back." He beamed as he held out a pair of leather gloves, branded with the symbol of the white tree. Boromir took them in awe.

"A practical gift to be sure," Gandalf snorted.

"Gandalf… these are my father's gloves. He wore them as a soldier in the army, before he became Steward." Garan quickly withdrew; Gandalf nodded ponderously. Boromir ran his hand over the fine, aged leather, not quite sure what to think. "What were you going to say, Gandalf?" he said absently.

"Hmm? Oh… nothing. Just… take care that you do not do anything foolish, my boy.

"I thank you for your concern, Gandalf. But I'm afraid nothing could now deter me from going to rescue my brother."

A rat trundled along the stone floor, its fat belly dragging beneath it. It was full, but was still going back for more- you never knew when you would get another meal around here. The rat clambered back up onto the meat. Still squirming a bit, it thought with some annoyance. The others weren't working very fast. You have to go for the neck. It traveled up along the body, and perched on the shoulder. It was forced to cling on desperately as the body went into another violent spasm. The rat looked displeased. These creatures just would not die. As the body subsided, he jumped down and meaningfully sank his teeth deep in the juicy flesh of the neck. He was prepared this time for the agonized thrashing of his meal, and dug in deeply with his claws and teeth. He reached down for another bite.

The rats scattered as the door was banged back on its hinges. The man was among them with a fury, stomping and kicking. He sent one flying from the boy's throat to smash on the far wall.

"God damned rats!" he bellowed. He scowled down at the carcass on the floor. It might as well have been a carcass for as much chance as it had at living. He stooped over and felt for the heart beat. He was mildly surprised to find one at all, but was not surprised to find it weak and sporadic. He rolled the boy onto his back, grunting with disgust at the swollen, greenish hand with purple streaks running all up the arm. Barbarians. Well they couldn't be upset with him if the boy didn't live. Starved and beaten for just shy of a week, now these blasted rats. It was incredible he had survived even this long. The man opened his bag and set to work, cleaning, patching, trying to pour water down the boy's throat without much success. He paused as he came to the hand. There wasn't much he could do for it- crushed bone, poor circulation, onset of gangrene. He would probably lose it- if he didn't lose his life first. But he did his best; he cleaned the stump of the finger gingerly, and bound the wrist up with a bandage, thankful all the while the boy was unconscious. As he rose painfully to his feet, he looked around the room. There were spatters of blood all over the walls, and pools of blood and muck covering the floor. No wonder the place was a hive of rats and maggots. He stepped outside, feeling very dirty.

"Well?" Demanded Eiyree as he shut the door. The doctor drew back slightly. She was a small woman- no taller than five feet and definitely not more then eight stone- and almost stunningly beautiful, but nonetheless he felt intimidated as her black eyes burned a hole in him.

"It'll take some luck for him to live." He said bluntly.

"He'd better not die." She murmured with almost inaudible menace.

"Then you should have called me sooner." He retorted shortly.

"Well you're here now. What can you do?"

"You should probably move him- getting him out of that muck will help, not to mention those rats eating him alive. Also, he needs water. No point trying to give him food, he'll just throw it up. But make sure he gets water." Eiyree nodded, and at her signal two burly men burst into the cell. They unclipped Faramir and, after deciding not to grab him by his hands, seized his ankles and dragged him along like a sack of potatoes. "I should really amputate his hand." The doctor said, watching blankly as the limp figure was dragged past, the bloated hand bumping along the stones, leaving streaks of blood behind. Eiyree snorted.

"With any luck we won't have him long enough for that to be our problem. Your pay, good doctor." She said, dropping a heavy jingling sack into his hand. "Say nothing to anyone, and return again tomorrow, and you will get double that." He nodded and withdrew. She turned and watched as the men deposited Faramir two cells over in a heap in the corner. "You needn't bother shackling him," she said dryly. "I doubt he'll be going anywhere."

A/N: M'kay, so, just a quick note: there will be no more parts from the perspective of Faramir from this point on, for obvious reasons: he is somewhat comatose. That would make for a slightly boring chapter. So were the rats too much? Was it a bit overkill? I find there gets to be some mega suffering overkill in stories like these, and I was trying to avoid it. Is the rats pushing it? Let me know.


	10. Action

A/N: Hello my patient gang! Sorry my post is a day late, I was STRANDED in New York since Friday because four little inches of snow managed to ground every flight leaving the city. Some vacation. Anyway, here it is! P.S: I am terribly sorry for my abysmally awful chapter names, I try.

Chapter 10: Action

The horse hauled its sodden hooves wearily out of the mud with a loud sucking noise, its head down, hoping to find some grass on the rocky ground. The sun was setting vermilion over the river, glaring off the water into the eyes of the weary little group of riders plodding alongside the laden barge that drifted slowly downstream. Boromir had long ago given up eagerly scanning all directions for any sign of life. They were nearly fifteen miles down the river now, but nothing had yet stirred among the rocks and waving grasses. Behind them, the mountains reared up like black bears, the sun being rapidly devoured by their massive bulk. Up ahead loomed the jagged crags of Emyn Arnen, black and desolate against the vivid sky. Boromir looked back at his small following: around twenty men, all poorly disguising their weariness and discouragement. As night quickly fell, Boromir had to decide how to proceed. Before sundown, the letter said. Boromir shielded his eyes as he looked at the top half of the sun, rapidly sinking beyond the plains. He reigned in his horse, and on cue, the other riders halted. Boromir turned to face them. His face was set. "Wait here," he commanded. "I will continue alone." Alban broke away from them and trotted to Boromir's side.

"My Lord, I must protest," he said in an undertone. "These hills are dangerous, and it is never wise to be alone, armed or otherwise. At least let me send one of the men-" Boromir halted him with a wave and a glance. "Set up camp and light a fire," he said loudly to the men. "I will return with my brother after the sun has set." With another look at Alban, he turned his horse and urged it on, following the hulking form of the barge.

With every ripple, the water nearly lapped over the hewn logs of the raft, lying dangerously low in the water under the weight of nearly half a dozen crates, all of which were stuffed with the precious cargo. An old cob plodded along over the uneven ground, harnessed by two long ropes to the raft. A ridge of rock, rising just above his head to the right, marked the beginning of the downs rising menacingly ahead. Boromir followed just behind the barge, his hand on his sword, alert once more. Perhaps this was what they had been waiting for: a single guard and the cover of darkness. Either way, he had fulfilled his part of the bargain. Boromir shivered, a spasm not merely brought on by the coming night. His whole body felt weak with apprehension and excitement; was he going to see his brother again? What if something went wrong? The questions were a tension that had been growing in his chest as the day progressed. The grasses along the rocks rustled slightly. He turned sharply, and was almost blinded by the sun. Suddenly, the sun was blocked out as something hurled itself from the ridge and slammed into him, throwing him from his horse, which streaked away through the rocks. He landed hard on the ground with the thing on top of him, the breath jarred from his body. Striking out with his fists, he managed to fling the heavy weight from on top of him. Rolling onto his side, he gasped for breath. He could see more black figures springing from the rocks, surrounding him rapidly. With a feeling of dread, he knew instantly he was overwhelmed. He reached instinctively for the white horn at his side. Before his attackers knew what was happening, a clear note pierced the air. The men back at the fire started up, knowing the sound instantly. Then it was cut short as, with a stinging blow from the hilt of a sword, Boromir was stunned and the horn was knocked from his hands. As he lay motionless on the ground, Boromir could taste metallic blood on his tongue. Then he felt, as if through a mist, that he was being dragged over rough rock. Now he was being hoisted up, with much struggling and swearing, onto a horse, and someone was climbing up behind him. But then, he heard shouts and a clanging of metal before the horse broke into a gallop. He felt something heavy on top of him, then he was sliding off the saddle. With a sickening thud, he fell from the horse and rolled several times over the rocks before coming to rest, unconscious, on a pile of shale.

When he awoke again, faces were floating over him. Boromir blinked rapidly, trying to bring the world back into focus. "My Lord?" Everything became clear. Several helmeted heads hovered anxiously above. Boromir groaned and tried to sit up. This couldn't be happening; where was Faramir? "My Lord, lie still. We think your left arm may be broken." With a jolt of pain, Boromir realized it most definitely was. Turning his head, he saw his arm bent in half right around halfway down from his elbow. He made a gurgling noise and turned away. Perfect. Alban put a hand on his shoulder. "Your attackers are all slain or fled my Lord, and we have sent riders to fetch a physician."

"What of Faramir?" Boromir demanded in a strangled voice. The men all exchanged glances.

"No sign of him, my Lord." Alban said quietly. Boromir roared angrily, sitting bolt upright. His bellow of rage instantly turned to a yelp of pain and he quickly lay back down.

"Send riders out on the trail of those men! Set the best trackers we have after them!" He commanded through clenched teeth.

"My Lord, there is naught but bare rock for miles, there is no hope-"

"I did not ask for excuses, captain! If we must send hounds out, we shall!" The soldiers fell silent as one of their number ran for a horse. Boromir tried to ignore the fact that they were all exchanging rapid-fire meaningful looks over his head, communicating silently. A short time later, an elderly man arrived on a horse going at such a speed as to belie his old age. He had leapt from the saddle even before the creature had shuddered to a halt, and stalked over to the prostrate figure that that he instantly spied out as his patient. Standing over him, he took him in with a sweeping glance. His eyes seemed permanently sardonic, enhanced by two almost comically unevenly placed eyebrows- comic, that is, but for the angry line of his mouth below. Kneeling down gingerly, he ever so slightly raised his more northerly brow.

"I suppose there is no point in asking what on earth you were doing." Boromir could not shake the feeling of an errant child. Producing a sharp knife from the folds of his clothing, the doctor slit Boromir's sleeve from the hem of his riding glove to just below his shoulder. He tutted disapprovingly as he observed the rapidly blackening obscene lump protruding from the skin, adding to his air of an exasperated nurse. "This will have to be set," he said with irritation, as though the fact was an unnecessary bother. The man firmly seized the arm above and below the break, causing Boromir to wince. Then he paused, and looked into Boromir's eyes, raising the eyebrow again. From another fold he produced a battered wooden stick and placed it in Boromir's good hand. "Put this between your teeth," he commanded, and, as if an afterthought: "this won't be pleasant." He seized the arm once more and, without any further preamble, wrenched it hard. There was a sickening crunch, accompanied by a bloodcurdling scream. Some of the surrounding soldiers looked away. "Ah!" The old man said, looking pleased. "That's rather a good job that!" He said, raising his voice over Boromir's screams. "Oh don't you worry, my lad, it'll soon feel right as rain, once I get it immobilized. Ah! I've just remembered! I have some good strong brandy!" He produced from one of the apparently innumerable folds a crystal bottle over half full of amber liquid. "That should take the edge off!"

Back at the castle, Boromir sat on the windowsill, arm in a sling, feeling numb. The raft had been anchored where he had fallen, with a contingent of guards waiting in case anyone approached; but Boromir knew no one would. It was over. They would never get Faramir back now. His father had come and gone in a whirlwind of anger and despair, barely coherent in his passion. Gandalf had passed through briefly, long enough to add his own piercing stare to the affluence of pitying glances sent his way. Boromir didn't know why they pitied _him_; it was his little brother that must now bear the consequences of his failure- as usual. It wasn't fair; it was never fair. Life wasn't fair. But what could he do about it? Just as he had been for the past week, he was completely helpless. Even more so now, he thought, looking at his bound arm. He closed his eyes as the vision of his brother, alone, dying, filled him with horror. He shook his head as if to shake away the image. It didn't bear thinking about. Yet he knew that it was happening even as he sat there. This was all his fault. He should never have allowed his father to persuade him to have a regiment accompany him- no, he should never have allowed his father to refuse payment the first time. Maybe if his father had paid them then this would never have happened; Faramir would be home safe with them right now. How could he have done this? How could he refuse payment of his own son? Suddenly, he felt hot anger boiling up inside of him, displacing the worry. This shouldn't be happening; it was too wrong. How could he sit there and do nothing? Boromir leapt from his seat. He had to do something, he just _had_ to; no one else was going to. He was his brother, and until he had seen Faramir's cold dead body he would not give up. He couldn't. Faramir's life depended on it.


	11. The Hunt

Chapter 11: The Hunt

Boromir slid through the shadows, making no noise as he stepped gingerly along on the knife-edge of his feet. Everyone was in bed, either asleep or merely hiding. He didn't know where his father had gone or what he was doing, nor did he want to know. He had his own troubles now: the most pressing of which were the guards posted at every entrance and gate. His horse was in the palace stables, which did not cause much of a problem; it was how to get the other item he needed that worried him. He knew all too well that there was no way any but the most accomplished tracker could follow a day-old trail over bare rock and hill. And the most accomplished tracker in this city was Jall, his old hunting dog. An aged hound bitch, she had grown too old for hunting years before. But he had no use for a retired dog, and she was now the prized possession of the ancient soldier who ran the gatehouse, and he knew she slept outside the door each night.

Boromir could see a square of blue light as he approached the door to the palace stable-yard. He approached carefully, sticking to the wall, watching for any sign he was not alone. But the cobbled yard was empty. Third from the end he could see his white stallion standing patiently, twitching his tail at the occasional fly. Mumbling reassuringly, Boromir carefully eased the creaky door open and wedged himself in the tight space between the horse and the wall, praying the stallion would not spook and crush him. Slipping the halter over his ears, he slowly led him out into the courtyard, wincing each time its hooves struck the cobbles with a loud clack. He looked around carefully, but still saw no one. As quickly as he could, he saddled the horse and tugged the reigns towards the gate. But suddenly the creature wouldn't budge. It stood stubbornly where it was, its ears laid back, and shook its head with a warning wicker. Boromir stood hesitantly, unsure of how best to proceed. How was he to get away if his horse refused to move? He pulled harder, stepping forward, and the horse finally gave in and followed, seemingly over its brief stubborn spell.

The two moved quickly through the empty alleys until they reached the first gate, towering overhead like some great monolith, cold and black in the dark. At the foot of them, a small warm glow showed around the shuttered window of the small gatehouse. Boromir was alarmed to see that the old man was still awake; he had been counting on him being fast asleep. He supposed he could go up to the door and demand that the old man return the dog to its old master for a while, but that would inevitably lead to questions about why he was going hunting in the middle of the night. He really didn't feel like explaining that he had to go save his brother but no one would let him so he had to sneak out in the middle of the night. Well, nothing for it now. Leaving the horse standing in the shadows. Boromir crept quietly towards the hut. He could see a dark form lying in front of the door. He knew it was Jall. He gave a low, soft whistle. The dog's head snapped up. Boromir waited apprehensively to see what she would do: would she attack him, start barking, or, as he hoped, recognise him and come quietly? There was movement within the hut, and the knot tightened further in his stomach. He could see the shining nose sniffing at the air as the bitch half rose. Then he let out a relieved breath as she frolicked over to him, tongue lolling, delighted to see him. Turning back to the road, he clicked his tongue at her and took a few steps away. He froze in horror as she suddenly turned round and skipped back to the door. She seemed about to bark for her master, when Boromir hissed sharply through his teeth to call her back. She turned around and seemed unsure for a moment, but then trotted back to him, apparently quite willing to return to the service of her old master. Boromir practically ran with her back to his horse and led them both along the wall to the tiny service gate that almost no one knew about, most preferring the cobbled hill to the tiny, narrow, uneven stairs that ran down from the door. He knew it would be tricky for the horse, but he was confident he could make it. Taking out a rusty metal key from his pocket, he slipped it in the lock and grated it open with some difficulty. The door swung noisily outward, but there was no one near. Jall scampered down ahead, then back up again to wait for them. She did not show her advanced years in the least as she bounced about, excited for this new adventure. Boromir took two steps down then turned around, tugging on the reigns. His horse eyed the steps warily, but after a moment, took a cautious step down. The enormous beast barely fit in the narrow passage, and it was a long way down, but it had to be done to avoid unwanted attention.

It was a slow business, but Boromir eventually got the horse down the long flight and carefully unlocked the gate at the bottom. Jall had been up and down it at least ten times in her eagerness, and she was panting heavily by the time they were firmly in the main streets again. Boromir heaved himself up on his horse- oh hell, it was difficult with a sling- and whistled for the dog to follow. This was the easy part. The gates between the remaining levels were left open and fairly unattended on peaceful nights, and he made good time trotting through the streets, Jall racing along behind. It was as he approached the imposing gate leading out onto the plains that the real trouble began. It was always well guarded, no less so at night. Two soldiers stood, one on either side of the gargantuan oaken gates, spears in hand. Four more sat inside the small hut to one side, drinking and playing dominoes from the sounds of laughter and the soft clicks from within. He knew there would be more watching on the wall above. He knew there was no side door or secret passage through these gates- only this imposing barricade, with its questioning soldiers and creaky, slow-moving hinges. He doubted even his high rank would get him through without trouble. He dismounted and pondered on what to do. After five minutes, the only solution he had reached was that he would request them to open the gate just wide enough to allow him and his horse through, as he was on a secret errand commanded by his father. Even as he formulated his plan, he knew it wouldn't work, and it was with a dull feeling of dread he moved through the shadows towards them. A sudden voice from the shadows close at hand almost stopped his heart.

"I saw you in the stable yard. I saw you sneaking- not very sneakily- down the hall. I saw you before you even left your room."

"I supposed you used your black magic for that." Gandalf moved from the shadow of a doorway, smiling a little sardonically. "I hope you will not try to stop me Gandalf; don't think I'm above hitting an old man."

"Ah. Well, I have seen what happens when someone tries to stop you, and I don't fancy having another go. Thus, I have come to put my black magic into your service." Gandalf tugged the reigns of a white horse standing in the alley. Boromir was taken aback. At every turn Gandalf had been whole-heartedly against him ever leaving, even if it was with an armed battalion. And now, as he sought to go out into the night alone on a hunt that even he knew was insane, Gandalf readily offered his help. This was a turn-about he would never have imagined. He couldn't help himself.

"Why?" he said warily.

"Let's just call it a way of boiling your father's blood." Boromir raised an eyebrow.

"You do that without even trying. Why _really_?"

"Oh well, if you _must_ know." Gandalf said, a little irritated. "I have become rather fond of young Faramir over the years, and I quite agree with you that something must be done. Then your damned father" he said darkly, "went and mucked it all up. I was rather thinking of going myself, even if I didn't know that you would be going. I figure that this way, at least I may have a proper soldier- properish," he said, eyeing the sling, "if not some interesting conversation."

"Well, I don't suppose you can devise any way to get us through this gate with no trouble from those well-armed guards."

"I can indeed." Even as he said the words, a strange, flickering glow lit up the night sky. The two guards at the gate spotted it too, and set up a yell for their comrades. Two streets over, an empty storehouse had suddenly burst into flames. As an alarm bell sounded, shouts came from other surrounding streets, and the four guards emerged from the hut, staggering slightly. Boromir's heart sank; they were sure to be discovered now. Then, before his bulging eyes, all six of them set off at a run towards the flames, leaving the gates completely unattended. He cast an astonished glance at Gandalf, who merely smiled in a gratified manner.

Two minutes later they were galloping across the plains, the only movement in the wide-open space under the pale stars. They did not slow until they were out of earshot of the shouts and bells of the fire. They pulled their horses to a walk, and several minutes later, Jall caught up with them, panting hard. Gandalf indicated to her with a nod of his head.

"A rather ancient dog to be bringing on a foray such as this don't you think?"

"I seem to be in the habit of keeping the company of ancients," Boromir retorted, smiling wanly. "And besides, in her time, she was the best tracker in all of Gondor. Gandalf chuckled.

"So _you_ say. Well then, Captain, what is the plan?"

"We will return to the spot where I was attacked, and set her on the scent."

"Of what? We could end up chasing rabbits all night."

"Except that I happen to have something to set her with." He held up a tiny scrap of cloth, barely more than a few threads. "I found it snagged in my mail after I was attacked. It's of the same colour as their cloaks." Gandalf looked doubtful.

"It is barely enough to see, let alone smell. Besides, the scent is a day and a night old, and the trail of bare rock. It would take a dog of better nose than I have ever seen to track through that." Boromir smiled fully this time, his pride as her trainer and former master showing through.

"Then you have come to the right place."

Having to move so slowly to allow the old dog to keep up with them- now cantering, now trotting- they made slow progress to the moors, and it was well into the second watch by the time they had scoped out the place where Boromir had fallen. Dismounting, Boromir let the dog rest a moment before holding out the scrap of fabric to her. She sniffed it eagerly, several of the threads disappearing as she inhaled deeply. Then she put her snout to the ground and began circling about, tail held high, fully alert. Boromir got back on his horse as quickly as his clumsy sling would allow him, and the two of them watched the hound impatiently as she travelled in ever-widening circles around them, occasionally pausing and perking her ears, then moving on.

"Let's hope her nose has not grown rusty in these long years," Gandalf said, taking a deep breath. Suddenly her entire body jolted, and she threw her head back and howled.

"We're away!" Jall put her magnificent nose to the ground one more and sped off south, straight across the rocks. Boromir and Gandalf urged their horses after, and the chase was on.

For hours they clattered and slithered over the cliffs and loose stones, following behind their eager guide. There were many tense minutes when Jall would begin her circling again, then have to come back for another sniff of the rapidly disappearing cloth, before shooting off once more in some new direction. It was when the bone-chilling cold of pre-dawn began to set in that despair came creeping into their minds. How long would this trail go on? For all they knew they could be following a still-travelling quarry. In fact, for all they knew, they could be following no one at all, simply following the wanderings of an old dog. It was when the first pale pink-tinged grey of dawn began to dispel the freezing mist that they saw it. Standing black against the sky, perched on a crumbling cliff of rock, stood a half-ruinous fortress, cold and quiet in the dawn.

A/N: Oh my Gooood, could I get _anymore_ typical than a creepy old castle for the evil bad guys to be hiding out in? Hell, why don't I just get Boromir to say to the dog "I dunno Scooby, it looks pretty spooky." sighs I fail. Well c'mon, give me a break, where am I supposed to put them, in quaint little thatched cottage? I don't have a lot of options when I have to find a place that has a _dungeon_. It's rather amusing that I am arguing with _myself_.


	12. The Fortress

Chapter 12: The fortress

Boromir sharply reigned in his horse, never moving his eyes from the apparently dead building. Gandalf had halted too, looking between the fortress and Boromir. The building was all that remained of an ancient army outpost, abandoned far before Boromir's time, but it was still impressive. It was, in every way, a military structure. All that could be seen from the outside was the four crumbling outer walls, no less than seven feet thick, punctuated with rising battlements and slitted archer posts. The rotting wooden gates, held together only by the metal bolts that studded them, were tightly shut and bolted, with moveable windows above for reigning down rocks or whatever else on the heads of enemies. Rising high above everything, a shaky-looking tower jutted into the sky from the south-east corner of the walls, poised over the precipice of the cliff that ran along two sides of the fortress. Everything seemed lifeless and quiet.

Gandalf looked back to Boromir, observing with a set jaw and hard eyes. He turned to look once more at the fortress when he saw the dog, still tracking forward, nose down. "Boromir, the hound!" Gandalf hissed. Boromir tore his eyes away from the castle and started as he saw the creature over two hundred yards away, obliviously going forward on her scent. Any moment now she might start howling, or be spotted from the castle and give them away. Boromir whistled as quietly as he could through his teeth, trying to attract her attention but no one else's. The dog kept on, keenly concentrated on the ground in front of her. Boromir desperately whistled again, louder this time, and it produced results. Jall paused, lifting her head. Boromir whistled once more, quieter again, and breathed a sigh of relief as the dog finally turned and trotted back towards them, seeming puzzled. They turned their horses and trotted quickly back down the hill, so that they could not be seen from the castle, should anyone be watching. Once out of view they dismounted. Boromir patted Jall's head and produced a piece of dried meat from his saddle bag. He tossed it to her, and she devoured it gratefully. Then he turned to Gandalf.

"What now?"

"I was hoping you had a plan- yours seem to work better." Gandalf sighed and rolled his eyes despairingly.

"Boromir, you seem bent on self-destruction. You are forever galloping off on wild, thought-of-the-moment expeditions, and-" Boromir waved his hand dismissively.

"It's a bit late now. An old man and a cripple are hardly an invading army. What we need is a way to get in without being seen."

"Seen by whom? I saw no stirrings of life while I looked."

"You saw Jall. She was heading right to it. There can be no mistaking that that is the place where the men went. And besides, they would not show themselves openly, it is meant to be deserted."

"Well, if they cannot show themselves, then they cannot watch. I think we are safe for now, as long as we keep quiet. The first thing we should do is go around to see if there is another way in- one that requires less hatchet work." Boromir nodded. Whistling for Jall, he threw her another piece of meat, and gestured with his hand back towards the city. She seemed to understand, and trotted back the way they had come.

"We cannot risk her barking at the wrong moment." They remounted and, keeping their horses walking, turned back up the hill to the fortress.

They saw and heard no one as they circled slowly around the castle, seeking for any way of entrance. They could not help but feel some doubt as to whether or not Jall's nose had deceived them, so deathly still did the place seem. If it was quiet because they were keeping out of a sight, they were doing an incredible job of it. As they came to the corner of the second and last accessible wall, Boromir felt ready to explode with frustration. There was no way in. If they wanted in, they would have to somehow burst through the gates. There was absolutely no way they could do that on their own, which meant they would have to return for help. It could be hours, maybe even the whole day before they could make it understood what was happening and get a whole troupe of men armed and back here, and it might be too late by then. Suddenly Gandalf gave a sort of hissing whistle, and pointed. Only he was not pointing at the castle, but at the edge of the cliff. They dismounted and approached the precipice; it was not until they were almost to the edge that Boromir saw two flat rocks marking what looked like a rough path. It slithered steeply down the edge of the cliff, zigzagging back and forth along its face. The shadow cast by the rising sun obliterated its destination, but they both knew that it was what they were looking for. They left their horses standing where they had stopped, and began the treacherous descent.

The path was only wide enough for one man to follow the other, and the idea of horses descending it seemed sheer madness. However, they had only gone along the path for about a hundred yards when it changed from a nerve-wracking ledge to a wide road where at least two men could ride abreast. It had been hewn deeply into the side of the cliff so that it was half-covered by the overhanging ledge of rock. Clearly, it was meant to be a great secret. By the time the sun was fully risen, they realised that they were not, as they had thought, scaling down a cliff, but descending into a canyon which sunk like a gash in the earth far below them. The fortress was perched on the higher of the two cliffs that formed the walls of the canyon, and the path they were now on seemed far older even than it. Though it was wide and sturdy, it was strewn with loose stones that went sliding under your feet as you leant back against the increasing incline, and in many places, the overhang had crumbled away, or the path narrowed once more to an uncomfortable width. They began to wish they had brought their horses, as their progress was slow, and the sun was rising constantly higher. The top of it now peeked over the rim of the cliff, illuminating even the bottom of the canyon. Boromir tried a few times to spot some sign of life in the pit, but could see nothing. Suddenly, up ahead, the path abruptly ended, dropping off into mid-air. Boromir cursed loudly and ran towards the edge. The road must have been destroyed! There was no way down. They had been on a fool's errand this whole time. He had only gotten a few steps when Gandalf seized the back of his tunic, causing him to gag as the collar cut off his air.

"Wait, Boromir!" He hissed. "This is it!" Boromir looked back at him in confusion, but sensed the need to keep quiet. Flattening themselves against the cliff, they edged along silently until they were a few feet from where the path ended. Then Boromir saw Gandalf had been right. As abruptly as the path had ended, the wall also ended. A high arched gate had been cut into the stone, and carved with many delicate figures and runes. He glanced quickly around the corner, then jerked his head back again. The passage was empty. He gestured to Gandalf, and they edged around the corner. What they saw took their breath away. The gate led to a short passageway that rose higher than the tallest tree, and as wide as the fortress above. And, ascending the entire height was the face of a magnificent castle, carved into the very rock itself. It was beautiful to behold, carved, as the gate, with delicate figures and ancient words, smooth pillars rising up to support the roof. This is what the fortress above had been guarding, not the empty moorlands. It seemed to be older than both, the pale yellow stone dusty and crumbling. A pair of massive red cherry-wood gates contrasted sharply with the stone, and they stood firmly closed. The windows, black slits high in the wall, showed no signs of life or promise of entry.

Gandalf gazed up at the inscription on the arch. "'_Ya cinad tal odun araf. Cinad al banat._' It is the ancient tongue of the men who lived here long before the reign of Gondor. 'To enter here is to be cleansed. Enter and Peace.' It is an ancient temple. A place of sanctuary, hidden from to world to remain pure." Boromir slunk quickly to the foot of the building, watching the dark slits carefully for any indication he had been seen. Gandalf followed calmly and in full view.

"They are quite confident in their ability to stay hidden. Indeed, it is a place to have confidence in," Gandalf said at Boromir's look.

"Well, I do not think we have much chance of being allowed in at the gates. So, after all this, we are presented with the same problem as we were at the top of the canyon."

"I think not. This was built as a dwelling, not a fortress. There will be another entrance somewhere." So saying, he began to move along the face of the wall, searching carefully for a hidden door or other passageway. Boromir, however, was a soldier, skilled in the art of finding what did not want to be found. He did not need to search, and saw, after a moment, what they were looking for. Gesturing for his friend to follow, he strode to the other side of the passageway. There, cut between the wall of the castle and the wall of the cliff, was a narrow alleyway, more of a tunnel really, barely four feet wide, disappearing into blackness. Boromir doubted if even its current residents knew of its presence, as, until you were almost upon it, it was practically invisible. He exchanged looks with Gandalf, took a deep breath, and plunged in.

It was nearly pitch dark after only a few feet into the passage, and the air was close, almost suffocating. He could hear Gandalf a few feet behind him, and could sense his discomfort. Boromir berated himself for not having considered the basic necessity of a flint and tinder, and hoped the exit from this passage would not be as well hidden as its entrance. Just in case, he ran his hands along the walls on either side of him, searching for any break in the stone. Time seemed interminable in this close little tunnel, and soon Boromir began to wonder if there even was an end to it, or if it just continued forever back into the rock. Then his toes collided with a solid wall of rock. He felt his heart sink. This couldn't be- a false passage! They had travelled all the way down this suffocating tunnel only to run into a wall. Then Gandalf, unaware of this delay in the dark, slammed into his back. Only, his face didn't smash instantly into a wall; he found himself falling forward, coming to land on an angle, his hands resting on a flat, smooth surface. Stairs. Cursing softly under his breath, he stood up, flexing his jarred wrists.

"We've reached the end of the tunnel. Some stairs go up now." He whispered back to Gandalf. He did not know why he was whispering, as they were certainly alone in the tunnel, but something about the place made him feel he should whisper. He felt his way carefully up the steep steps with hands and feet, his eyes straining wide in their search for some light. He could hear Gandalf shuffling and cursing behind him, and couldn't help but smile a little. Then abruptly, he found himself on all fours on a flat plateau once more. Whispering back to Gandalf, he rose to his feet and took a few steps forward. He crashed suddenly into a wooden barrier with a bang that almost stopped his heart. He froze, listening hard, and could feel Gandalf doing the same behind him. After what seemed like hours, nothing had changed, and he began to feel around for the handle. After a moment of scrabbling about, he found a cold iron ring and gave it a tug. He almost screamed with frustration as he realised it was locked. Gandalf pushed him aside, and there was a muttering and a flash, then the door swung open. Boromir was almost blinded by a flood of light pouring from the doorway, and he was certain they'd been caught. But no armed enemy attacked; after a few seconds his eyes adjusted, and he realised the light was nothing more than a dim glow, coming from far off down the hallway they now found themselves standing in. He remained motionless just inside the threshold, listening again for any signs of life. All was silent. Gandalf pulled the door shut behind him, and made a long scratch in it with his staff. They glanced down the tunnel in both directions, and simultaneously headed right, towards the light. There were no doorways off the passage, but it seemed to be leading somewhere. After a while, he spotted a torch, stuck in a wall bracket. It was reassuring, both as a shedder of light and a sign that there was someone here. They dared not take the torch, lest it be missed and give away their presence, but he couldn't help feeling a slight sinking feeling as they left the light at their backs and moved off into the darkness once again.

His nerves were on edge; the smallest sound seemed amplified a thousand times in the tense, echoing silence. Loud footsteps boomed in his ears, and he jumped, half expecting a gang of armed men to charge around the corner. Then, somewhere in the shadows, a rat scurried off. He breathed again. They moved on, a whisper in the dark. The light of one torch had barely faded when the soft glow of another would appear, but the passage was still empty and silent, save for them. Sometimes, they chanced to run, but were quickly halted by a faint scurry, or a distant dripping. After what seemed an age, the hallway terminated in a single, wooden door, barred tightly from their side. Boromir inched carefully towards it, and placed his ear against the wood. There was no sound from the other side. Holding his breath, he gingerly eased the rusted bolt up, and inched the door slowly back on its hinges. As a crack appeared, a brilliant white light poured in through it. Boromir paused. Still no sound from without. Gandalf looked nervously back the way they had come. Boromir pushed the door open a few more inches, and wedged himself out.

He had to squint painfully for a moment before he could see his surroundings. He found himself in an open, airy room, with beams of daylight streaming in down long shafts hewn in the ceiling. Everything was carved into the pale stone, and everything was covered with beautiful carvings. He heard Gandalf follow behind him; everywhere else was still and lifeless. He looked questioningly at his companion.

"Where is everyone?" He listened in alarm as his own whisper flew back at him from all sides, amplified off the bare rock. Gandalf merely shrugged, walking forward across the room, choosing not to question their good fortune. He investigated their current position further. It seemed less of a room and more of a long hall, stretching off in either direction. In many places doors or arched passageways interrupted the walls, and carved seats of wood and stone were dotted about. It seemed almost elven in some ways, with precise detail in every aspect. Boromir was looking about helplessly, completely at a loss. Where to now? There were so many ways to go. Who knew how far back it went; this could take hours, and he didn't know how long their luck would hold. It broke. His heart practically jumped from his chest as he suddenly heard voices close at hand. With one thought, the two of them simultaneously leapt for the nearest door. They had no sooner wrenched the handle and pulled it quietly closed behind them then the voices entered the main hall. Gandalf turned from the door and realised they had entered some sort of library or study, although all that remained now was rows of shelves carved into the rock. Boromir, however, was busy listening at the door. The voices were those of two men, and they spoke like Gondorians. He was not sure whether this was bad or good, but he could at least know what they were saying.

"… best horse I ever had. Gone now, damn him."

"Ah, well, he may return yet."

"Aye, with no saddle and two lame feet no doubt. That was an expensive saddle you know!"

"Aye, expensive to the man who _paid _for it, and that was certainly not you."

"Well, those who pay good money for saddles should know better than to leave them in an unlocked stable."

"With you about, certainly." The voices faded into the distance, and Boromir straightened with a feeling of disappointment. He hadn't quite expected for detailed directions to his brother, but he had been hoping for something. He turned to discuss with Gandalf what to do next, only to find himself alone in the room. His skin prickled. Then, from without, began loud shouting.


	13. Doors and Stairs

Chapter 13: Doors and Stairs

Boromir flattened himself against the wall, holding his breath. Gandalf had been captured- they were found out. It would only be moments before men would be bursting into the room to kill or capture him. His body was tensed, ready to fight or flee, whichever chance came first. He almost jumped out of his skin when he heard a loud hiss behind him.

"Boromir!" He whirled and saw Gandalf peering out at him from between two of the shelves. "Come quickly!" As he came level, he saw a shaded passage between the bookshelves, leading out into another light corridor. He followed Gandalf quickly down the hall, and as they slipped around the corner, he saw men all hurrying the opposite direction toward the loud bangs and shouts. They raced silently away from it, until the noise grew dim and they were alone once more.

"I thought you had been… the shouts!" Boromir said breathlessly. Gandalf had a strange look on his face.

"I thought I was too. I went out to try and see who they were, and I was standing against the wall as a whole group of them were coming around the corner. I thought for sure I was done for, but then there was a loud noise and shouting, and they all started running the other way." He shook his head. "Hopefully our luck holds." He looked around. "They'll either be keeping him up very high or very low. Look for stairs." They had passed many branching rooms and passages on their rapid flight, but no stairs; they now found themselves in a sort of crossroads. Boromir turned full circle, trying to decide which way to go. The place seemed to be an absolute maze of hallways, rooms, and connecting passages. Gandalf seemed to know what they were doing, though, and set off confidently down a wide hall.

Boromir eventually gave up trying to remember where they were, being content to follow Gandalf down long hallways, around corners, and through rooms, never seeing anyone else. He briefly considered asking him if he had any idea where they were going, but decided it was better not to know. Gandalf stopped. "Here it is." They were in a torch-lit hallway, and, half hidden by the shadows, a flight of stairs led down. They galloped down it to find another hallway going perpendicular to the one above it. This hallway ended in another set of stairs down, which led to a hall that curved off in the other direction. As they ran down this one, Boromir noticed with some hope that the torches here were closer together and had been lit more recently than the flickering ones in the hallways above. However, his optimism faded as they reached the end of this hallway to see a flight of stairs leading back up. Boromir moaned in frustration. But, as they had nowhere to go, they went up it. This one went up much longer, fading almost to darkness as it rose steeply, until it terminated in yet another torch-lit passage. This one, however, faded off in both directions.

"Which one, left or right?" Boromir said in a low voice. For the first time, Gandalf hesitated.

"Right." They set off down the silent hall, a little more slowly. Then in the distance, a door appeared. Suddenly, Boromir gasped.

"I don't believe it." As they drew close, a long scratch in the wood could clearly be seen in the flickering torchlight. "It's where we began!" He was at a loss. All this time they had been wandering around, merely to get back to where they came from. He resisted the urge to flop down on the ground and not get up again. Gandalf gazed at the door for a moment, then drew in a deep breath.

"Ri-ight. The other way we go, then." Boromir led the way this time, back where they came from, past the stairs, on down the hall. After a long walk, they came upon a door. When Boromir tried the handle, he found it was locked. He looked to Gandalf.

"Time for more black magic." Gandalf performed the same neat little trick as before, and the door swung open to reveal a rising staircase. It was claustrophobically narrow, spiralling tightly upwards. They began climbing up it, although it was more like climbing a twisted ladder than a flight of stairs. It seemed to go on for hours, and Boromir was climbing almost on all fours, his head down, when he suddenly ran into something, which gave way with a loud 'oof'. Stars exploded in his head. He looked up and saw a cloaked guard, just like the ones who had tried to carry him away, already beginning to rise, his hand on his sword, yelling. Boromir reacted instinctively. He leapt forward, at the same time snatching his dagger from his belt, and sprang on the guard. They went down with a clatter, and Boromir found himself on top of a dead body. He heard the sound of running feet; looking up, he saw another guard running off down the hall. Pulling his dagger from the dead man's throat, he hurled it with practised skill, burying it between the fleeing man's shoulders. He ran silently to the corner, watching for anymore attackers, his hand on his sword. No one else moved in the silent hall. He turned around, his heart pounding, and saw Gandalf standing at the top of the stairs, looking expressionlessly down at the body. Boromir stopped and wrenched his knife out of the other one. Wiping it on his jerkin, he sheathed it as he approached Gandalf. Gandalf looked up.

"Quickly done," was all he said.

"At least we know we're in the right place." Gandalf stepped carefully around the body, and they turned the corner. They found themselves in a short, poorly lit hallway, with three doors in either wall. "I thought you said this wasn't a fortress." Boromir said in a low voice.

"Even sanctuaries can have bad people." Boromir tried the first door on the right. It swung open to reveal a tiny square cell, lit only by a small beam of light from a shaft near the roof. He tried the first cell on the left and second cell on the right with similar results. When he opened the second cell on the left, he froze, his breath caught in his throat. It looked like a massacre had occurred inside. There were pools of blood and filth all over the floor, and streaks and splatters of blood covered one wall. And, leading from the set of shackles on the wall, out the door and to the next cell, was a trail of smeared blood along the floor. With his heart pounding between his ears, Boromir moved, as if in a dream, to the next door. It would not budge. He pushed harder. Nothing. Gently, Gandalf moved him aside, and unlocked it. He stepped back, and Boromir opened the door.

A/N: Oh the suspense of it all! What do you think he should see? Should he find a, alive Faramir, or b, Faramir pushing up daisies? Let me know! Heck I may even listen.


	14. Survival

Hey everyone

Sorry for the late post- stupid server wouldn't let me upload.

Read away!!

Chapter 14: Survival

A strangled cry burst from Boromir's throat. He staggered across the floor and dropped to his knees beside the huddled figure. With trembling hands, he turned him onto his back. His heart stopped and his oxygen was cut off. Faramir lay on his back, his eyes closed and his lips a dark blue. His face, behind the patchwork of dark bruises, red cuts and dried blood, was pale and cold. Gandalf was kneeling beside him now, watching with numb acceptance. Boromir grabbed his shoulders and shook him, screaming for him to wake up. Faramir remained, still and silent, cold as ice. Boromir clutched the broken body to his chest, rocking back and forth, sobbing in complete abandonment. Gandalf put a hand on his shoulder, but said nothing. They sat for some moments in the semidarkness, grieving together.

Gandalf looked up, peering uneasily through the open doorway. He did not know if Boromir's cries had gone unheard, but he was all too aware of the highly dangerous situation they now found themselves in. He tugged gently at Boromir's arm, trying to get him to release the body. The distraught man only clung tighter to his brother, refusing to let go. But Gandalf persisted, carefully prying his fingers away, until he gave in weakly, a child ready to be lead.

"Let him be, Boromir; we are too late." Gandalf made his quiet voice heard over Boromir's weeping. "We will return, I promise, with an army. An army to vanquish these slaves who have wounded your house." With startling suddenness, Boromir leapt to his feet, his face hard, his eyes two bright sparks.

"What does it matter? What does it matter now? Why do I care what happens to them or me or anyone when my brother is dead? He is dead!" Boromir screamed, then stopped abruptly, his breath caught in his throat. It was the first time the words had been said, and it hit him like an arrow through his heart. Dead. He turned and fled from the room, leaving Gandalf sitting on the floor beside all that remained of Faramir. He sat with his head in his hands, his eyes tightly closed. He had known both of them from boys, and had taken their well being to heart. To be here now, to see Boromir torn apart, was near impossible to bear. He leant forward, removing his cloak, and placed it gently over Faramir's face. He placed a hand on both of their hearts, murmuring a prayer. Then he began to weep. Silent sobs shook his frame, and tears poured down his wrinkled cheeks.

It was as he sat, his hand resting on Faramir's chest, that he felt it… the faintest fluttering under the palm of his hand. His head snapped up, and his heart leapt into his throat. It was not possible. Could it be… Faramir was alive? He rose to his knees, peering keenly into Faramir's pale face. He put both hands carefully near Faramir's heart, and held his breath, feeling for anything. There it was again: that brief, barely detectable pulse under his hands. With a cry of joy and fear, Gandalf began to do all he could, which wasn't much. It seemed hours that he worked feverishly on him, hardly daring to hope that he would ever meet Faramir again. He breathed air down the boy's throat, said every spell he could think of, anything to try and keep him alive. Then, with a rasping sound, Faramir's eyelids fluttered slightly, and his chest rose. Gandalf leant backwards, gasping for breath himself, his eyes filling with tears once more.

It took him a few moments to realise that all was silent out in the hallway. He rose quickly to his feet and listened closely. His skin prickled, and he knew without checking that he was alone. He looked down at Faramir, fully aware that he could not carry him any distance alone. But they certainly could not stay here; he had no idea how long it would be before new guards would arrive to replace the old ones, or indeed even if Boromir's actions had alerted them to come investigate. He moved to the small window and looked out. It was a small square hole which led to a shaft about two feet long that allowed sun to trickle in for a small part of the day. The view was simply that of the opposite wall of the canyon stretching far above. He leant out and looked down. Several dozen feet below the window, he could see the path carved into the cliff, mostly hidden by its overhanging shelf of rock. A sudden inspiration struck him. If he could somehow lower both of them down to the path, they would have a chance of escaping and bringing back help. He inspected the window carefully. It would be a tight squeeze, but he was fairly sure they could make it.

The bigger problem was what to do for rope. He had not thought to bring any, and there was nothing in a prison cell to use for rope. He looked about the room. The chains on the walls would produce maybe five feet altogether. With a quick stroke of his staff, he severed them and joined the two shackles together. He reluctantly left Faramir where he was to go through the other five cells, severing the chains from the wall and attaching them together. Trailing them back to them back to the cell, he knew they would not be long enough. Spotting his cloak still lying on the floor, he tore it into strips and tied them to the chain, hoping they would hold. He would need something to anchor it to. He shrank from the idea, but the only thing he could thing of was using one of the dead bodies as a counterweight. However, he didn't have much choice, so he dragged the closest one in and fastened one end of the chain around its waist. Then he tied the torn strips of fabric under Faramir's arms, and, taking a deep breath, lifted him up. As he moved him, the boy's breathing came quicker, and Gandalf could feel him stiffening. Don't wake up, Gandalf begged silently. Not yet. With a great difficulty, he lifted up to the window and lowered him carefully out. Releasing the chain bit by bit, Gandalf lowered him down until he was out of slack. Holding his breath, he carefully released his hold, exhaling as the carcass remained in place, lifting slightly as Faramir's entire weight was put on it. Then he took a deep breath and began the difficult task of climbing out the window.

He managed to get himself into a sitting position on the windowsill and looked down with consternation. Faramir looked quite macabre, dangling lifelessly from the end of the rope, his head lolling limply back. Gandalf realised with a sinking heart that the rope stopped over six feet short of the ground, and that there was only a narrow ledge protruding out from under the overhang. He looked uneasily back inside at the feeble anchor that was to be holding them both up. How could one body counterbalance two? Well, he had to try it. He would just have to hope the body would get wedged in the narrow passage out. He gripped the chain and, inch by inch, began to lower himself from the ledge. As he put his full weight on the chain, there was a nasty drop and a jolt, and Gandalf breathed a sigh of relief. It was as he had hoped; the body was wedged- for now. He began to slide laboriously down the chain, hand over hand, unsure as to whether he could feel the chain inching lower. It was a slow process, but he finally paused just above where Faramir hung, and deliberated what to do next. He supposed he should cut the rope and let them both drop down, but he was rather wary of the narrow ledge below, and he was not eager to drop Faramir six feet in the state he was in. Then, above him, he heard a rasping sound, and the rope jolted down a few inches. He looked up, his eyes wide with horror. His anchor was beginning to give. He whipped out his knife and instantly severed the rope above Faramir, who dropped the distance and landed with a sickening thud in a heap right at the edge of the drop. Just as he was freed from the rope, there was a loud noise, and Gandalf felt himself dropping. He fell back away from the wall, hovering over the dizzying drop below him. He clawed at the rock, searching for a handhold, but found none. Then he was falling, grabbing at nothing.

He felt as though his lungs had collapsed as his chest slammed onto the ledge, his legs dangling over, threatening to drag him off. He closed his eyes as the chains and carcass pitched by to silently strike the distant ground below. He scrabbled frantically at the earth, wriggling painfully forward, and he was finally on firm ground again. He lay on his back beside Faramir, gasping for breath, blinking his eyes to try and clear his vision. Then he heard loud yells coming from below. Before he realised what was happening, Boromir was running towards him, his face set in grim lines. Wordlessly, he halted before them, and, pulling off his cloak, slid Faramir onto it. He seized two corners and Gandalf, picking himself off the ground, took up the other two, and they were off, running full out up the hill with the shouts growing closer behind them.

Boromir raced down the empty corridors, his sword in his hand, his mind completely numb. He was like a mad dog, driven by some mysterious force beyond his control. He no longer cared if he lived or died; he could feel no pain or exhaustion; all that mattered was the overwhelming, blinding rage and sorrow. He heard a shout behind him and whirled around. He saw one of the cloaked men standing there, looking confused and angry. He did not raise his sword until it was too late; he was dead before he had the chance to yell again. Boromir moved on, ready for more now that he had gotten a taste. A group of three walking along gave him no trouble as he came up behind them. Another one only stood stupidly as he disposed of him, and Boromir still ran on, blindly berserk. He was spattered with blood now, and saw nothing through the red mist over his eyes. The sling on his arm did not slow him down as he dropped soldier after startled soldier. Soon shouts rang through the cold stone halls, raising the alarm, and more and more enemies came to meet their doom. Three men turned and fled as their four companions were slain almost instantly, and Boromir screamed a challenge to the empty hall.

But then a massive figure almost filled one end of it. Boromir turned and looked at this new challenger, unimpressed by his intimidating size and the look of rage on his face. Then he saw the blood on the man's boots, and the marks on his massive fists, and a cold chill ran through his body. With an animalistic scream, he hurled himself at this foe of all foes. Dreyd was shocked by this vicious onslaught, and was knocked off his balance for a moment. But he quickly regained his composure, and, snatching up his sword from where it had fallen, leapt with almost equal brutality at his attacker. Their swords met with a vibrating clang, and they wrestled each other's blades for a moment until Dreyd knocked Boromir's sword out of the way. Boromir came quickly back with a rapid upswing, but his blade glanced off the other's gauntlet. Dreyd yelled in pain, whirling about to meet him. They clashed blades again and again, neither gaining any ground. But eventually, Dreyd caught onto the fact that he was both bigger and stronger than his opponent, and began to use it to his advantage. He leapt at Boromir, raining blows from above, forcing him to lean back to meet them. Judging the moment was right, Dreyd hurled himself bodily at Boromir, knocking him off his feet. Boromir, with the practised skill of an experienced soldier, rolled over and quickly leapt to his feet. But, as he was recovering himself, Dreyd took a swipe at him, and the tip of his blade sliced across Boromir's back and over his arm like a whiplash, leaving a long line of blood behind. Boromir yelped in pain and scrambled away a few feet, clutching at his cut arm. Whirling about, he raised his sword in defence, his hand still pressed over his wound. The blood seemed to madden him further, and his eyes burned like two coals into the other. The two men circled each other, searching for an opening. Dreyd made the mistake of charging first- it was his last. Boromir leapt quickly aside, spinning about and burying the blade deep in his side. Dreyd grunted and dropped to his knees. Boromir raised his stained sword and brought it sweeping down, severing the man's head. The decapitated body flopped down, and the severed bloody head rolled away down the hall, coming to rest at the feet of some twenty men, watching in horror. As they looked down at the remains of their leader, Boromir decided it was time to go.

He turned and fled down the hall, the enraged shouts echoing after him. He had no idea where he was going; he just ran. He could hear the shouting coming from all directions now, closing in on him. He ran down what seemed like the quietest hall, turning corner after corner, but still the murderous voices drew closer. As he came to a bright annex, he halted, his sword in hand, his pulse pounding in his chest, turning around to face his foes. And then, as he turned a full circle, lo and behold, there stood the same massive wooden doors that he had looked upon with such awe from the other side. Not pausing to ponder his good fortune, he leapt for the heavy crossbeam which barred them closed. The massive spar must have been three times his weight, and was meant to be lifted by two significantly more rested people, and at first he could not budge it. Then, into the hall behind him burst twenty men, bristling with weapons. Spying him, they bellowed with renewed venom and charged for him. Setting his shoulder to it, Boromir gave a heave that could only be brought on by total desperation. With a grating and a creak, the bar slid to the side, and Boromir flung himself on the doors. They slid outwards, and he slipped through the small space between them. Not pausing to see how close his pursuers were, he pelted up the slope, his lungs burning and his throat threatening to close up. At least when he had to turn and fight he would have the high ground.

Then, as he rounded the second turn in the path, he saw two figures on the ground. For a moment, he felt a cold fear clutch at him; were they both dead now? But no, Gandalf was rising to meet him. Tearing off his cloak, Boromir rolled his brother's body onto it, never looking into his mutilated face.

A moment, and they were off again, both of them, running, considerably slowed by this new burden. The path seemed steeper than ever before as they battled their way up it, fighting for breath, the shouting growing ever closer behind them. Gandalf stumbled, and he knew they could not go on much longer. They seemed to be only delaying the inevitable, wearing themselves and their enemies out before the final stand.

Suddenly Boromir felt the corners of fabric ripped from his hands, jerking him backwards. Gandalf cried out in pain, and fell to the ground. Recovering himself, Boromir turned and saw Gandalf face down, an arrow in his back. On the path below stood a dark-haired woman dressed in blue, a bow in her hand and her arm still held up behind the departed arrow. Her face was deathly white, and her eyes burned into his with a rage that made Boromir quail ever so slightly. But then, as he looked at the body of his brother on the ground where he had fallen, the murderous hatred stabbed through him again with renewed vigour, and all he wanted to do was kill anyone who stood in his way. He drew his sword, standing over his fallen companions, ready to face anything. Undaunted, the woman seized another arrow from the quiver at her side and prepared to fire again. Boromir did not give her the chance. Charging at her, he met her just as she drew back the string and directed the tip at his heart; he placed his sword to her throat, hesitating. She did not bat an eye. Behind her, the men came running up, ready to attack.

"Stop!" She screamed, never removing her eyes from Boromir's face. "I will deal with it!" Boromir cast a quick glance at the men behind her, never believing for a moment that they would not attack as soon as they had the chance. Her gaze pierced him with ferocious intensity, and he stared back at her.

"All I have to do is push," he growled, twisting the point of his sword at her throat.

"All I have to do is let go," she replied quietly. The stood frozen, both checked. Then, with lighting quickness, Boromir whipped his sword out, severing her bow, and swung the sword back up towards her head. She ducked down, seizing a knife from her side. She leapt forward, ducking under his raised arm, slicing at his side. He jumped aside at the last moment, whipping about to face her. She was now on the high ground, between Boromir and Gandalf. But she was not interested in them; she had eyes only for Boromir.

"You killed my husband," she snarled at him, the dagger in her hand raised high. "And you will die for it."

"You killed my brother!" Boromir screamed back. She gazed at him with contempt.

"He is not dead!" Boromir's breath caught in his fury.

"Yes he is! You destroyed him- I barely recognised him. I held his body in my arms. He is dead."

"No Boromir!" The voice came unexpectedly from Gandalf. Boromir froze and looked back at him. He had pushed himself up to his knees, his hand clutching the back of his shoulder. "No Boromir," he shook his head, "he is not dead. He is alive!" Boromir's eyes rested on his brother's body. It wasn't true; he could see it: he was cold and breathless. Then, just for a moment, the chest rose. Boromir choked, his throat closing. It was too much. To have to convince yourself someone is dead and then have to be convinced they are not. Then, he felt something hit his chest, and he staggered backwards. Looking down, he saw a feathered shaft sprouting from his chest. The woman had seized a bow from one of her soldiers, and was already fitting another arrow to the string.

"And now, _Lord_, you will all die. I will have the great pleasure of watching you die as you have watched this country die." Suddenly, a rumbling, clattering noise filled the air. The men all turned and fled, and, after a moment, the woman followed them. Boromir slid down the rock as dozens of horses thundered past him in pursuit of the fleeing enemies. A horse slid to a stop in front of him, and Alban leapt from the saddle, kneeling before him. He quickly examined the arrow, and smiled slightly.

"Caught in the leather, my Lord. Only nicked you a bit. Knocked the breath right out of you though. I think I should pull it out now."

"Gandalf… my brother."

"They're being seen to, sir." Alban looked at the two soldiers bending over the others, and flinched at the sight of Faramir. He had known him well, and had been with him in Osgiliath. "That was quite foolish, sir, going off alone." He took hold of the shaft. "If your lovely bitch hadn't come frolicking home, we wouldn't even have known. Good little animal that, sir. Obligingly led us right to that Keep on the cliff-top." With a quick tug, he jerked the arrow from Boromir's chest. Boromir grunted and stiffened. "You can slug me now if you like, sir." Alban smiled. Boromir looked past his shoulder to where three soldiers were lifting Faramir carefully from the ground. He had his brother again, but he was not sure for how long.

A/N: Well, well, well! You all chose to keep him alive, so alive he stays… for now. Last chance! Dead or alive? Hooray for evil people being dead!


	15. Home

Chapter 15: Home?

Boromir sat slumped forward in his chair, his head in his hands. His brother lay on the bed in front of him, breathing, but no more alive than he had been when he was lying on the ground of that path. Even after all the blood had been cleaned away, Boromir still could not bring himself to look at his brother's face. Perhaps it was guilt, or fear; he could not tell. All he knew was that every time he saw his brother's blankly closed eyes and pale bruised skin, his throat closed and he couldn't breathe.

It was night again. Boromir had sat by the bed as the healers came and went, as servants bustled about and were sent away. Gandalf had been in for a while. The arrow in his shoulder had not done much harm; he had kept the tip of it, saying, "in all my long life I have never had occasion to be shot with an arrow. Leave it to you, Boromir." Denethor had not been in. He had not been seen since he rushed out of the gates and, on seeing his younger son being lowered carefully to the ground, had turned and fled without a word. More than once, Boromir had briefly wished he could join him; hide away and try to ignore it. But he would not let himself leave. He rubbed his eyes, exhaling slowly. The shock had begun to wear off about two hours ago, a feeling like waking up. He was raising his head and blinking tiredly against the blinding light of reality. A reality in which his family was so far away that he found himself standing in the middle of a desert with the sun dropping and the frigid night rolling in. Meanwhile, the chilling cold of Gondor's own night was surrounding him, and he shivered. The night ahead of him stretched long and empty as he thought back on the old healer's words.

"We have done all we can. To be perfectly frank my Lord, I do not know what is keeping him alive; by rights he should be dead. But he is alive- for now. Much depends on tonight: if he survives tonight, he has a good chance." Tonight was Faramir's last chance at life. The thought seemed inconceivable. He didn't think he could do it again: convince himself that his brother was dead. It had been hard enough accepting he was alive, and he just wouldn't be able to stand it.

Boromir leaned forward, watching his brother breathe. He tried to expand and contract his lungs at the same time, hoping to find some sort of connection with him, but he never seemed to get enough air from the slight, shallow raises of his chest. How could Faramir need so little air? How could he live without it? How would he live without him? The thought exploded in Boromir's head so quickly and without warning it was like a frigid wave crashing through his brain. Live without him? He had never even thought about living _with_ him before. Faramir had just always _been_ there. He was not someone you lived with, like you lived with Denethor. Boromir realised with a shock that Faramir was _something_ he lived with; more a part of the scenery like a table or a couch than like an actual member of any kind of family. Always quiet and useful, yet never looked at for what he was. He tried to think how long it had been since he and his brother had just sat and talked- a real conversation, not talk of strategy or economy. With the war and everything else, they barely even saw each other. Boromir slowly realised that he didn't even know who his was brother anymore.

As he looked down at the blank battered face, Boromir longed to see his eyes. As hard as he tried, he just couldn't seem to remember what colour they were. He wasn't sure what that meant, but he knew it was pathetic not to know your own brother's eye colour. That simple fact made Boromir feel like crying again; it was such a silly thing, but it all of a sudden seemed so significant. What else didn't he know about his brother? He tried to remember the other things families were supposed to remember: his birthday, his favourite food, how tall he was. He realised he didn't know any of it. How could they have ended up like this? All they had growing up was each other: no mother, no father really- and the children of a country's ruler don't really have friends. Yet all it took to make them total strangers was age and the strain of war. He should never have let that happen; he should have been a brother before anything else. And now it might be too late.

Boromir felt he needed to do something- make some gesture. He reached out his hand, then hesitated. He awkwardly touched Faramir's hand, then grabbed it and held it. For a moment he felt like pulling away, but he didn't. Should he try talking to him? What would he say? How sorry he was? That he had tried his best? That he loved him?

Boromir suddenly discovered he was crying. It was an odd feeling, crying. It was like falling without knowing where you were going, and suddenly finding you were standing on the ground. He hadn't cried in a long time. In fact, aside from in that prison cell, the last time he had cried was when he was nine years old. The kitten he had found hurt in the street had died in night, and he sat in his room with its stiff little body on his lap. Denethor had stood in front of him, scowling down on him and the kitten. "It's only a mangy cat, boy." He had growled. He was angry because they were late for something, he couldn't remember what. Boromir remembered looking up into his father's cross face, and the tears had begun rolling down his cheeks, and his shoulders shook violently. Denethor lost his temper. Seizing the little boy by his shoulders, he hauled him upright, dumping the little cat on the floor. "Grow up, boy!" He shouted at him, giving him a shake. "Men don't cry!"

Boromir stopped crying. He hadn't cried since that day, and now he had cried twice in the same one. Well, maybe he wasn't a man then. It didn't matter. He wasn't anything right now- not a man, not a soldier, not a brother. He had spent his entire life trying to be the first two, and not enough time trying to be the last. Now, he may never get a chance at any one.

A small sound came from the door. Boromir looked up and saw Ade, hovering in the doorway. Boromir bristled slightly with annoyance; he had given distinct orders for no one to enter the room. She jumped as he looked at her.

"Forgive me, my Lord, but Gandalf wishes to speak with you in your room."

"Tell him I will speak with him in the morning."

"He says it's with regards to your father the Lord Steward, sir." Boromir furrowed his brow, then nodded and rose to his feet. As he brushed past her, she just stood there, staring wide-eyed at the bed. He gazed at her a moment.

"He'll be fine." He had lied to everyone else so far, it seemed natural. She just nodded wordlessly, and he walked on. It seemed odd to be out of the room and moving down the cold silent halls. He moved slowly, like an old man tired of life. He pushed the door of his rooms open to find Gandalf standing in front of the window, looking out at the night sky, his bandages hidden beneath his cloak. Everything sat exactly as Boromir had left it, with the window open, and the tray of food still on the table.

"What is it Gandalf?" he asked wearily, shutting the door behind him. Gandalf started and turned.

"Eh? Oh, Boromir. How are you?" Boromir ignored the question.

"Ade said you wished to speak to me." Gandalf was pacing the room.

"What? She did?"

"Yes. About my father." Boromir was growing impatient. Gandalf looked puzzled.

"I don't recall asking her to fetch you, but I did indeed wish to speak to you. I'm sure that by now your friend Captain Alban has informed you of the fate of the two villains responsible. One you so graciously dispatched yourself, and-"

"The woman threw herself from the ledge before they had a chance to capture her. Yes, I heard. What is the point of this, Gandalf?"

"The point is, Boromir, you are missing the point. I realise you are somewhat… preoccupied at the moment, but other matters must be dealt with. Do you not wonder who these people were, or how they got ahold of your brother?"

"Not just at the moment, no."

"Well, perhaps you heard that three of the men were taken alive. They have been interrogated by the guard, but all they would say was that they were the Liberators of Gondor, whatever that means." Boromir placed a shaking hand to his forehead.

"Gandalf, please." Gandalf circled around the walls.

"Boromir, I cannot take my mind off it; this is all so strange, it-" he broke off with a snort, checking himself mid-stride. "I think you need to have a serious discussion with your house-keeping staff, Boromir, as I am quite sure this is not part of the décor." He was gazing at something on the ground with a mixture of disgust and vague amusement. Only half interested, Boromir moved to where he was standing behind the couch. On its back on the ground was a pale grey rat, dead.

"It's a dead rat, Gandalf." Boromir said with a sigh. "Castles get rats. Now if you'll excuse me, I must…." He trailed off. Something seemed to be nagging in the back of his mind as he looked down at the dead rat. What a curious looking rat too- grey, not brown like most….. A knell sounded in his brain. His eyes darted to the tray of food on the table; the food so unusually provided. A second later he was off down the hall running, yelling for guards. A dumbfounded Gandalf followed behind as they sped back to Faramir's room. Heads were peeking out doors as they ran, and several guards were approaching behind them as they reached the closed door. Boromir flung it open and burst inside. The sight that met his eyes almost blinded him.


	16. Reveal

Chapter 16: Reveal

Ade stood by the bed, calmly holding a pillow over Faramir's face. Boromir stood immobilised as the soldiers leapt at her and pulled her away. Gandalf removed the pillow, leaning over Faramir. The guards dragged Ade, screaming and struggling, into the next room while Gandalf bent to his work. Faramir's lips were black and he was not breathing. Gandalf could not help but feeling that he was back at the very beginning; back in that dim cell, doing his best to give life to a dead man. Boromir stood tensely by as Gandalf worked, waiting. If he had to do anymore waiting, he thought he might go mad; he had done so much of it that dim and terrible week. But he did not wait for long. Whatever had been keeping Faramir alive before was still working, and he took a deep, trembling breath. Boromir thought for a moment that his saw his eyes flicker slightly, but then he was still again, breathing almost imperceptibly. The commotion from the next room awoke Boromir, and awoke the same feeling that had altered him down in the rocks. Ignoring Gandalf's yells, he flung open the door and, seizing a nearby soldier's weapon, leapt for the girl as she stood, struggling, between two soldiers. He was mere inches from her when two powerful hands seized his and forced them to his sides. He whirled on his assailant, prepared to cut them down if need be. To his stupefying shock, he found himself face to face with his father, who wrenched the sword from his grasp with unsuspected strength.

"Boromir!" He barked, flicking an angry glare over everyone in the room and making them wilt; everyone except Ade, who stared back at him with such intense hatred that Boromir could feel his own skin burning. But Denethor seemed unfazed by it, and just continued glaring. "Boromir," he snapped again, "what is the meaning of this? Why are you attacking servant girls?" Boromir's chest was heaving with anger that even his father could not completely wither.

"She tried to kill Faramir!" he cried, raising a shaking hand in Ade's direction. Denethor looked like he had been slapped.

"She… what?"

"She tried to kill me, too!" Boromir rounded on the girl, still pinned between two soldiers. She stared back at him defiantly. "The food. You don't bring me food. It was you, wasn't it? You told them where to find him; you sold him to them! How much did they pay you? Or are you a "liberator of Gondor" too?" He spat the words at her. She spoke for the first time.

"I have done nothing that was not already done." She said in a low voice. "I did your family no injury that was not already wrought, and devised no harm upon you that _that man_ was not responsible for!" She turned her smouldering eyes on Denethor again, who just gaped back at her, completely overwhelmed. "You, _Lord Steward_, have brought your family to ruin on top of your country. You alone are burdened with the knowledge of the evil you have done, and you will burn for it!" Her voice rose high then faded away into the shivering silence.

"Take her to the Citadel," Boromir said quietly, "and kill her." He began to turn away.

"How can you defend him?" She screamed, wrenching free of the stunned guards. "How can you stand by and watch as he takes another innocent life! You don't know who this man is!" She flung her hand out at Denethor. "You don't know what he's done- if you knew, you would look at him as I do: as a filthy, despicable pig, not worthy of what he has been given."

"I don't—" began Denethor, his face still stunned, but Ade spoke again.

"I see you have forgotten, old man, that night nineteen years ago when you, a passionate young soldier, coerced a young housemaid with drink and lay with her while she was unknowing!" She spat each word as if it were a dagger, striking out at the man she had hated for so long. "Then rode out to the next town, not caring that she was cast away as a whore, to give birth and raise a child alone and ruined." The whole room had fallen silent and was gaping at her in disbelief. "The night my mother died, alone and destitute, she told me the name of the man who murdered her. On that same night I determined to find you, and when I did, I knew it was true. Had my mother had a son, there would have been no question of delaying, but as I was unable to take my revenge, I forced myself to wait patiently until the time came. It nearly killed me to have to live under you, but I waited, and watched with increasing disgust as your true nature was revealed. My quiet hope had been that you might not have been as vile a bastard as my mother told me, but I saw you were so much worse. You treated your own son like a dog, beating him, humiliating him, degrading him! You never know what you have until you've lost it- that's one thing I learned from my mother. I hope now you have learned this valuable lesson, old man. Your son is dead! You never bothered to know who I was, so you did not mourn that you had lost me. Value better now what you are left with, and be glad you have that much." She fell limp and silent, her words ringing in the ears of the listeners.

"Faramir is still alive." Gandalf said quietly. She stared at him, her eyes filling with tears.

"Then more pity on him," she whispered.

Boromir descended the narrow steps, throwing deceptive shadows in the light of the sparse torches. He ran his hand over the cold stones, slower and slower as he reached the bottom. He passed the stiff guard, nodding slightly to him. He moved slowly and deliberately towards the end of the passage, his eyes on the door. Finally, he stopped in front of it and drew a deep breath. The guard standing there took out a small key and, bending down, unlocked a panel low in the door, sliding it back to reveal a grate. Then he turned and stood at attention a short distance off. Boromir knelt on the ground and looked through into the small cell. It was dark inside, and for a moment he could not see anything. Then, in the far corner, slumped on the ground, he saw the girl, hunched over in a ragged ball. He was surprised that he felt nothing when he looked at her: no rage or hatred, nothing really but dull sorrow. Though her hair covered her face, he could still see the dark bruises and cuts across it. She knew he was there, but she did not look up. After a long, tense moment, she finally spoke.

"It's alright not to hate me," her voice was quiet, but it made Boromir jump.

"I do hate you," he said gruffly.

"No you don't. That's why you're sitting out there watching me, instead of in here beating me." They were both silent for a space. "I suppose you want an explanation?"

"You explained yourself quite thoroughly last night."

"But not enough for you." She raised her head ever so slightly, and Boromir felt her peering at him through the gloom. He shook his head, and she lowered hers again.

"What do you want to know Boromir?" It seemed odd to hear her speak his name so simply and easily. Boromir considered his first question very carefully.

"Who were they- the people who took him?" She shook her head slightly.

"No one really. Radicals who hated your father almost as much as I did; said he had destroyed the country and was not fit to be ruler. I told them that Faramir was you, and that they would be able to influence his politics if they had you."

"You told them he was me?"

"It was you they wanted; they wouldn't have taken Faramir- he wasn't worth as much. One of the servants in the palace- I won't tell you which, he wasn't directly involved- was a member of the group, and from what I gathered of his ravings, they had been looking for some time for a way to get to Denethor. I appeared interested at first- mostly out of curiosity- but then your father sent Faramir on that death mission."

"Osgiliath." She nodded.

"I came up with the plan. But you must understand, I made it very clear to them that Faramir was not to be harmed in any way, and that I knew what I would do if he were. When they sent us… when the second letter came, I knew it had gone very wrong. They had found out who he really was, and probably weren't going to keep him alive. I knew I couldn't trust to fate any longer. Didn't you wonder why you weren't found out in the canyon?" She looked at him keenly, her eyes glinting at him through the dark. "I was there that day. I followed you. I was the one who set fire to one of the ovens- I distracted them so you could get to him." He stared at her wide-eyed. She had been there?

"What about the food? Why did you try and poison me?" Her voice was muffled as she replied, her head down on her knees.

"That should never have happened. I was…. Please try and understand: after your father refused to pay the ransom, he confirmed what I had known all along. I was so angry- I hated him so much for what he had done to Faramir, to me… I just wanted to hurt him. I wanted to see him suffer. He couldn't die yet, he hadn't suffered enough; he didn't know yet what he had done. He had had to feel the same pain I had felt. If the threat of losing his second child wasn't enough, maybe the reality of losing his first would be." He voice rapidly grew in intensity until it broke, and she was silent for a moment.

"I didn't hate your brother, Boromir. I loved him, just as I loved you. You were my brothers too. I came here when you both were young- I don't suppose you remember. It was only a year or so after your mother died, and two years after mine had left me. You both seemed so lost and helpless… especially Faramir." She paused for a moment, and Boromir looked at her quizzically. "You have no idea, Boromir, how many times I wished I could've taken that little boy in my arms and saved him from this place. I saw how much _he_ hated him; how every glance he chanced his way was full of spite and malice. He saw in him the only thing he couldn't bear to see but couldn't bear to look away from: the thing he had lost and wanted back so desperately. I did this as a test, Boromir: if Denethor could sacrifice so much to save the child he didn't even seem to love, then there might have been hope for him. But he did what I expected- he proved his worth to you. I know he is your father Boromir, but surely even you must see a bit of his heart." He could feel her eyes burning into his, bright specks in the darkness. "His heart his black, Boromir. He is no longer right. You can see it too, just not as well as I can; not yet." Silence soaked the air. He watched her curl back up like a leaf in the fire.

"I can't stop them from killing you."

"I couldn't expect you to." Boromir looked at her for a moment, then began to rise to his feet. "Goodbye brother." The words knifed through his brain as he walked away down the dark hallway, back up the narrow stairs.


	17. Wake Up

Chapter 16: Wake Up

Gandalf watched Denethor, slumped over in his chair, his head in his hands. Neither man said anything. It was not that they didn't have anything to say. Gandalf could think of numerous reproaches and comforts he could offer the man, but felt it was a bad time to offer the former and he the wrong man to offer the latter. Denethor had a much wider range of thought. He wanted to scream and shout and cry and pour out his heart to someone and hit something and kill someone and grieve in silence all at the same time. Seeing as how sitting silently required the least movement, he had opted for that choice. And anyhow, he had no one to pour out his hear to. Certainly not to Gandalf; the two were never what could be called friendly. He wanted to ask him to leave, but he couldn't bear to be alone. My god, sometimes he missed her so much he couldn't breathe. What would she say to him now? What kind of a father was he- what kind of a ruler? Why did this have to happen to him? What had he done to deserve this? Gandalf began to pace about impatiently, his heavy robes rustling around him. Denethor peered at him through his fingers, and his eyes narrowed. That one- why did he only appear when there was trouble or death? Look at him circling the room, like a giant vulture, waiting for a carcass. Whose carcass? His, that's whose. He had always hated Denethor- had always thought him unfit to rule. Well he was ruler, and there was nothing the old man could do about it, wizard or not. And he was a great ruler- a ruler fit to be King, not just steward, just a babysitter waiting for a non-existent King to come. No one else could have seen the great nation through all he had seen it through- no one else could have lasted. It was enough to drive a lesser man mad, the constant threat and worry. But he was not a lesser man.

Gandalf, turning back, saw Denethor glaring at him defiantly. It was not exactly the expression he had expected, but it was at least an opportunity to start a conversation. "You're going to have the girl killed?" At least on topic, although perhaps not the most profitable question. Denethor sat bolt upright.

"You expected otherwise?" He snapped, his voice ringing in the otherwise silent room. Gandalf raised an eyebrow.

"Have you spoken to her?"

"Why should I speak to her? She tried to have my son killed!" Overlooking this mendacity, Gandalf continued warily.

"It might do to at least give her a chance to… justify herself."

"Justify herself? My god man, look at my son! He's barely alive, and you want me to sit down and have a chat with his assassins! What possible justification could she have?"

"I was thinking more along the lines of… her claim."

"Her claim?" Denethor's voice dropped. Gandalf gazed at him keenly.

"Is it true, what she said?" He asked without thinking. Denethor's eyes flashed.

"How dare you! I am the Steward of Gondor! I could have you killed for speaking to me like that!" Maybe he should. It would be a way of solving _one_ of his problems. Gandalf raised his hands defensively.

"I meant no offence." He waited to see that the man subsided somewhat. "Be warned though: it will not remain a secret." Denethor's eyes twitched slightly.

"It will." He said it in a low, intense voice. Gandalf did not reply; that note in Denethor's voice had left no doubts in his mind. Gandalf felt a sudden intense desire to be away from there, but stubbornly tried to continue.

"Well, after you have taken all your revenge, what will you do?" Denethor raised an eyebrow.

"Do?"

"Things can hardly remain the same, can they?"

"They most certainly can not." Denethor held his head up and stuck his chin out slightly, glaring down his crooked nose. "From this point forward, security around all levels, especially the palace, will be doubled. No one gets in or out, ever, without proper security. Every prospective worker for the palace will be deeply researched. There will be no more wild revolutionaries here; we have enough problems as it is. You are quite right; everything will change. It will be better." Gandalf looked at Denethor sitting proudly on his low throne, and he sighed. He had hoped he would be wrong, but it was what he had expected deep in his heart: nothing had changed. Denethor was no more of a father and no better of a ruler than he had been before. After all that had happened, all that had changed, he had learned nothing; nothing had come of this. Gandalf thought of Faramir, and what had happened to him. A dull ache crept through his stomach as he thought of what it would be like for the boy to realise his suffering had accomplished nothing- although Gandalf doubted it would be the first time the feeling had come over him. Shaking his head, Gandalf turned and left the room, leaving Denethor to plot his nothing.

Boromir smiled at his brother. Faramir blinked up at him and smiled weakly back.

"How long was I asleep?" He asked in a raspy voice.

"All night this time," Boromir replied. It was good to hear him speaking in full sentences. It had been almost a week now. Faramir swallowed carefully.

"Good… good…." He seemed to be drifting off again, but then pulled himself awake. Opening his still darkened grey eyes, he met Boromir's. "Are you alright?" Boromir shook his head. How like Faramir; he almost dies and he's asking him if _he's_ all right. Boromir nodded, replacing his smile.

"I'm great."

"Where's father?" Boromir was silent for a moment, his smile fixed.

"He's dealing with a new attack from the orcs." The orcs had not attacked since Osgiliath; Denethor was off hounding the sentries at the gates, giving them more weapons and less ale. He had only been to see Faramir twice since he had awoken, and both times had left after a few minutes, frustrated with Faramir's slowness. He was able to grip things now, but glasses of water still sometimes slipped out of his hands. At first, he had been unable to speak, and Boromir was not even sure he had recognised him. It had been a fearful first two days, waiting to see if the damage could be reversed. He had been through beatings and falls and been bled almost dry; twice fever wracked him, threatening to undo all the good done. They had been so sure that his arm would have to be removed, but Boromir refused; he knew his brother would rather be dead than be a cripple. Besides, he thought with a wry smile, he didn't want to turn up a chance to have matching slings.

Boromir knew he would never forget the moment, just before dawn eight days ago; a soft moan awakened him. He sat bolt upright, not sure of what it meant. He had watched with disbelief as Faramir's eyes slowly flickered open, glazed with the return of pain. For those first two days he had been more like a frightened animal than a man. He shrunk from any touch, and would not eat and had to be forced to drink. When the fever finally broke and he began to take notice of his surroundings, he did it in a dull, uninterested way. The doctors had said that he would get better, but, adding in low voices, he would probably never be quite the same. Even now, Boromir could tell that he was different. His mannerisms- he had always been quiet and timid, but now he just seemed… flat. He still told himself that it would just take time, but he wasn't so sure….

Faramir kept his eyes on him. He was trying very hard to remember all the things Boromir used to say to him, all the things they used to do together. He felt he was beginning to piece his old life back together, but he often still felt that he was floating just outside of a haze-bound inner circle that he could never quite break in to. It had been a strange feeling, waking up from death. They said he had been awake for two days before he realised it, but he could not remember. All he could recall were strange, chilling dreams; images; flashes that didn't mean anything. Sometimes he felt so frustrated with himself he just wanted to scream. He couldn't seem to get anything right. It felt as though he had been sent back to infancy and had to now relearn his entire life. Even the events of the past week seemed dim and hazy, as though he had just read them in a book somewhere and they hadn't actually happened. But the pain that seemed to be a permanent part of his life now would never let him really forget. Breathing had only just become something he didn't need to bite his lip to tolerate. He had mostly been kept in a semi-conscious state by a foul-tasting brown liquid almost constantly administered to him, and he expected it to remain that way for some weeks now. It was fine by him; it kept him from dreaming or waking, the two things he had come to fear the most.

Faramir pushed himself painfully up on the pillows; Boromir leapt to his aid, but Faramir pushed him away. "I can do it," he said, in his strained, slurred voice. He settled himself and smiled thinly at his brother. "Don't worry anymore brother… soon everything will be normal again." Boromir stared at him for a long moment, then shook his head.

"No Faramir, I promise you, it won't be." He fidgeted awkwardly. "Look Faramir, I know I was never that good of a brother to you, but all that's going to change. Things are going to be better now-" He broke off as Faramir interrupted.

"Boromir, you-" Faramir was forced to stop as a fit of coughing left him gasping and writhing in pain. Boromir grabbed his hand and watched him until he was still again. With a deep breath, he continued. "Boromir, you are my brother, so generally, I'm not allowed to kill you. But if you make this out to be your fault one more time, I'm going to have to box your ears." Boromir ducked his head and laughed.

"You couldn't even box my ears before skinny, let alone now you're a cripple." Faramir chuckled too, wincing in pain. He squeezed his brother's hand. "Don't worry," he repeated, locking eyes with him. "Nothing has changed. Everything will be normal again."


	18. End of Change

Chapter 18: The end of change

Faramir sat on a bench, reveling in the sunlight. He had managed to elude Boromir long enough to limp slowly out onto the terrace. It had taken him longer than he had thought, even with his cane by his side. He placed his left hand carefully in his lap. He had just had it taken out of a sling, but it was still well-bandaged. The healing was going painfully slowly, but at least he no longer looked like a piece of ground meat; his worst bruises had faded to dull yellow, and the cuts and gashes were mostly raised pink lines now. The worst had been waiting for his ribs to set; it was what had kept him in bed for the past month. Everything was "back to normal", whatever that meant. In some ways, it felt like he had never been gone; his father was still distant and isolated; Boromir had been attentive for a while, but Faramir could already feel the strain of the rest of his life breaking into the bond between them. Faramir was very good and judging the stress in a relationship: for much of his life, his physical safety had depended on it.

At first it had seemed odd really, that nothing had changed. Then Faramir had realized, without much surprise, that he should never have expected it to. Circumstances change; people don't change. Once you restore the normal circumstance, you restore the people to normal. Deep down, he knew he himself had not changed either. Sure, he had a lot more scars now and an uneven number of digits, but he was no better or worse off than he had been before now. It made him wonder really, what the point of it all had been. When you balanced out the results, all that had changed was that some people had died so that he could go on living. It didn't seem fair really. Just because they were bad people, their lives weren't worth less than his, yet they had all died over him. His brother and Gandalf had almost died over him. And what had been accomplished? He was still alive, but to what end? To be killed by some orc in the next skirmish attempting to hold back the sea with a mop? No, it wasn't fair, but it was what had happened, and, as usual, he would accept that. Acceptance seemed to be his role in life; accept it and move on, that's what he was told. So that's what he did, and that's what he would continue doing until he would have to accept his death. It was somewhat comforting, this dull certainty: to know you will never change, and you cannot change anything. He only hoped his life would not be as dull as his acceptance.

Boromir checked his speedy pace. Through the double doors flung wide to spring he could see Faramir sitting on the bench, staring off into the distance. Boromir resisted the urge to rush over and drag him back to his bed and his nurse. But he knew that, even if he really wanted to, he could never do that now. As much as he hated to accept it, he knew his little brother was a grown man, now more than ever. The look in his eyes had changed; he had been far from innocent before all this had happened, but something else had been altered within him: he was hardened. He had come to fully and intimately understand what it was they were fighting in the world. Boromir leant against the doorframe. He remembered when that look had entered his own eyes; he had hoped it would never happen to Faramir. Once you became hardened, the line blurred; the distinction between good and evil was not so distinct anymore: it was relative. What those people had done to Faramir they had thought to be for the good; what he had done to save Faramir he thought to be for the good; every battle for both sides in this war was thought to be for good. It all resulted in something being lost; some good part of everything. And now Faramir knew it too. Some things were better not known. Boromir had not told Faramir about Ade- about their sister. Even if his perception of the world had changed, his perception of his family should not. No one should ever have to think ill of his family. Faramir turned at that moment and spotted Boromir. He smiled slightly, and lifted a hand. Boromir gestured back. He felt suddenly sad, like he had lost something. The smile was different; it had a forced quality, a certain feeling of inevitably ending, and becoming another frown. He had hoped things would never change; and now, everything was different.

Faramir watched Boromir smiling back at him, Boromir his rock; Boromir his safety net. Boromir had always tried to shelter him from the big bad world outside, the way a big brother should. He was still doing it right now, smiling like nothing bad would ever happen. Faramir had seen that smile so many times, it almost seemed true. Yes, nothing had changed, and nothing ever would.

Fin

Final note: Wow, I can't believe this is over. I have been working on this for SO long. I hope it came out as well as I wanted it to. I am so glad you all loved it so much, and I promise it will not be so long before I come up with the next new thing this time. Thank you all for all your reviews!


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